Chris's mother r-created this tattoo (left) which he designed and wore proudly on the back of his calf.
A shadow box created with flowers from my daughter's funeral and photos of my daughter and grandson over the years. This was a gift from - and made by my daughter-in-law.
of heavy steps
a pinch of passion,
litters the floor
as night tempts
with the promise
and nothing else
Forty years ago today, March 12, 1982, was the first of only a few of the happiest days of my life as my firstborn son, Randy, came into this world. The immediate love and adoration that I felt were second to none, and that strong bond has never wavered. Even in death, he is always with me.
These last two years, seven months, and two days haven’t been easy, but I have survived because I appreciate the 37 years we had with him. I’ve learned coping mechanisms because I have five other children, grandchildren I'm raising, a husband, a mom, two sisters, and a brother and the last thing I wanted was to hurt them further by seeing me fall apart. I decided early on that this loss would not do me in. I taught myself that every time a bad thought about the circumstances surrounding his choice to leave this earth came to mind, I quickly replaced it with a happy memory. I decided to respect his desire not to be here anymore because it was his choice, and I knew he could not handle what was going on in his life. He was suffering, not thinking clearly, and needed to be free of his pain. And no matter what anyone else may feel, I know he is now at peace in Heaven with God, his grandfather, and his godfather's uncle.
While many holidays encourage thanks and goodwill, Mother’s Day is unique. This day specifically bestows gratitude upon those who nurture us and love us unconditionally.
For people who have lost a parent, or for parents who have lost a child, this day is bittersweet. An occasion for cherishing the gift of life also emphasizes how the loss of a loved one affects us forevermore.
Regardless, we can cherish the lives of the departed, take inventory of their enduring memory, and hold them close to our hearts as the sacred blessings they are.
Mothers and Fathers
By Kerry J. Bickford
Whether we created or chose them
They were ours.
Much like the vows that we once took:
To love and to cherish
Until we are parted by death.
And we were.
So who are we
When it's Mother's
Or Father's Day
And we cannot help but ache
For the days we remember
And the ones that we won't
That were stolen away
In a moment we can never get back
No matter how much we wish for it.
Whether we created or chose them
We loved them fiercely
And still do
By carrying them within us
Always remembering they were here.
So on Mother's Day
Gather up the flowers in your yard
And scatter them in the places that bring you joy.
And on Father's Day, take yourself for a walk in the wood
And don't be surprised if you see your loved one's laughing face
In the trees
He used to climb.
By Kaileigh Marie Bickford
My heart is heavy on Mother’s Day
I was so young when you went away
And the memories from when you were here with me
Through no one’s fault, have begun to fade
And with the time that fades away
I struggle to remember you
I'll never forget the love you gave
Or how hard you fought and tried to stay.
I can't remember the feel of your hugs
Or the smiles that spread across your face
But I do have distant memories
And other reminders of what I lost
On Mother's Day I no longer cry.
I smile at my mother up in the sky
And though she might not be here with me
Our love for each other will always be
By Luke Schmaltz
We create and are nurtured
We give life and receive
Yet we are all perchers
On the tree of bereave
Our lives are a gift
We blossom by choice
And upon Fall’s rift
We all have a voice
I say your name
As I count the leaves
And your face in a frame
Says it’s OK to grieve
Through every season
These roots run deep
Gratitude is the reason
I sing before I sleep
of what was
NCB: We will never forget the day you were born, with so much love.
she was an
of a lesser
of dreams and
with open hands,
a survivor of
between the pages in my calendar
and the holes in my heart
It lives in your painted handprint
on a shingle
and words you left behind
to remind me you were here
it lives between the sunrise
and everywhere in between
Morse 4 alt text
Geoffrey Valentine’s Day 2009 with his Nana in Florida and Valentine’s Day at the cemetery 2021
In the early hours of grief
Much like the night sky
When the moon is new
And our hearts
A cavern of despair.
As time passes
And sorrow remains
Slivers of light
Appear like stars
And for a moment
We imagine our loved ones
Faces in the sky
The moon waxes on
And so do we
Whether we want to
And we remember the days
On their pillows.
Then one luminous night
We are blinded
But not fooled
By the light
For soon it will wane
But take heart:
Love, like the moon
Is always there
Even when we cannot see it.
The weight of grief made me collapse.
My legs could no longer carry the weight of my broken heart.
Screams vibrated in my being as I slid down the wall to the floor.
My chest too heavy to take a breath.
You are gone
You have to be buzzed into this building so Anthony was relieved when a stranger with long hair and a beard wearing rumpled clothing held the door open for him. “The elevator is broken, follow me” he said to Anthony as he opens the door to the stairwell.
He looks homeless but has kind eyes and in Anthony’s desperation, he takes a chance. “I’m looking for heroin. I was told I could find it in this building.” “I’ll show you the way, walk with me.”
For some reason, Anthony is not afraid of this stranger. He continues to follow him and relax. Soon he will be free of the world that betrayed him. Free of all the physical and mental anguish. Free of his failures. Free of the guilt.
“Is this the floor” Anthony asks impatiently. “No, we must go up further but did you notice the windows on each landing? Look at the magnificent night sky, the stars, the heavens, the radiant light of hope, & the message in all of it.” “I used to care about that stuff.” replies Anthony. The stranger sees his eyes soften and the beautiful green color they turn as a tear comes to them. “Help me” pleads Anthony.” “Walk with me, please.”
“Do I know you?” asks Anthony “I know every hair on your head and you have known me all your life. I see there is not much in your wallet but you carry a prayer to St. Anthony.” “How can you see in my wallet? How do you know that”? Anthony is astonished “Saints keep their watch. Walk with me.”
Already knowing the answer, Anthony asks “My God, Is that you?” “I have so many broken places in my life. More than I can fix on my own. Will you help me? Can you ever forgive me?” God answers “No matter how far you have pulled away from me, I have always been with you. Nothing in life or death will separate you from me.”
I am counting time.
I wake each day covered in grief and walk through my day.
Tick, tick the hands on the clock move.
But the grief is still here, weighing me down. Exhausting me.
Tick, tick, tick I walk in step. Doing what I should. Forcing myself to take each step.
I look ahead to ending this day’s robotic movements.
Sleep comes with the help of Melatonin.
Only to wake and feel the weight of grief again.
Tick, tick, tick…..
Remembering Axel Anderson 1991-2021
"Reaching out to embrace the random / Reaching out to embrace whatever may come"
I lost my son Danny Vigliano 8/17/20 from an accidental fentanyl overdose. This video if for all who have lost someone special that can no longer be with us and the hope that somewhere, someday, we’ll be together again.
This piece is done in memory of Geoffrey Watt.
It was the Friday before Mother’s Day weekend and I was getting ready to leave work. My cell phone rang, and I glanced at a number I didn’t recognize, but my instinct was to pick up.
“Hi,” said a quiet, familiar voice and my heart did a little pirouette.
“Nathan! “I shouted into the phone. “Is that you?”
The response on the other end was a delighted giggle.
“Yup,” he said, “they let me out!”
Nathan, our youngest son, had been struggling with addiction. Each recovery was eventually followed by a relapse, and the last one had been particularly excruciating. While he was still on medication assisted therapy, he had been using methamphetamines and had recently undergone emergency surgery for an infection in his heart. We filed a section 35 in a desperate attempt to save his life. The angry, sullen, agitated person we had been so worried about when we sectioned him seemed to be replaced by this jubilant and sober one. I was relieved.
“So, what’s the plan?” I asked.
“I want to come home,” was his immediate response.
Over several months, 14 bereaved people from the SADOD community set out to write a song describing their feelings about loved ones who had passed away from substance use-related causes. The group’s musical conduit was composer Eleanor Dubinsky – a talented and highly accomplished songwriter.
After many hours of sharing thoughts, ideas, memories, observations, and images, the group collectively composed song lyrics that accurately and inclusively encapsulated a loving message across the breadth of the group’s perspective.
Grief is hard, losing a child is hard, life is hard. Keep dreaming, stay positive, and hold onto the dream that we can end the stigma and have quality and effective treatment for mental health and addiction. I’ll keep dreaming. We LOVE you Danny!!!
My son was a casualty of Covid 19. It was not listed as “cause of death” on his Death Certificate, nor will it ever be recognized as being even remotely related. Covid accelerated his beating drum of doom. My son lived on the fringes, a disenfranchised man, incorrectly labeled by the judicial system; he struggled with bipolar and alcoholism his entire adulthood. He surrendered his life on May 15, 2020, coinciding with the first surge of Covid cases.
My son lived his life in the shadows. He was destined to a life on the outside with his mental health label -- always looking in. It was a burden he could not bear, as a loving, big-hearted person who was ostracized from society for a crime he did not commit. The pain exceeded his ability to cope.
With the onset of Covid, his life went from a weak ray of hope for a future to no chance in hell. He plunged into the darkness, not a star or a beam of moonshine on his horizon. Quickly he succumbed, as his life force was already precariously close to the edge. He quickened the pace of his death march with the onset of Covid.
There was no funeral for my beloved son. My husband and I were the only attendees due to the pandemic. There were no shared tears or remembrances; no friends or family to express sympathy or support. Grieving during Covid is a lonely place to be. I found solace amongst strangers online—our new normal world. I am still awaiting a hug.
Hello darkness my old friend…..
As with much of the world, I have been exiled to working remotely at home during the COVID pandemic. I do, however, occasionally have the opportunity to venture back into the office from time to time. On this particular day, as with so many countless commutes before, I started my truck, took a sip of coffee, tuned the radio to a classic vinyl station, and backed down the driveway. It wasn’t long before I settled into autopilot mode. The music soon drifted off into the background, and I was once again alone with my thoughts.
My mental wanderings led me to think about Cory, my 30-year-old son who died from an opioid overdose three years ago during a momentary relapse. I started to conjure sweet memories of him growing up and experiences we had together; the laughter, the pranks, the banter, the proud moments, those times of joy that we so often take for granted. As the train of thought went from memories to wondering what his life would be like today, a familiar sadness began to creep in.
As that sadness began to grow, coincidentally (or not), my attention was drawn to the radio as the lyrics coming through the speaker seemed to read my mind. “Hello darkness my old friend. I’ve come to talk to you again….”.
Trees on a dry Hill
Nine months of expectant waiting.
Heartbeats, flutters, expanding belly.
The joy of those 9 months.
31 years later:
Nine months of unexpected loss and grief.
Shock, numbness, broken-hearted.
A time of waiting for my lungs to expand
and my heart to mend.
Crushed by a cinder block.
In memories' embrace, let us unveil
A tale of a soul, Nicholas, hailed.
A thinker's mind, with wisdom refined,
Intelligent spirit, forever enshrined.
Curious eyes that sought to explore,
Immersed in the depths of knowledge's lore.
A reader of worlds, boundless and vast,
Unveiling secrets, each page a repast.
Loyalty flowed through his veins, untamed,
A steadfast heart, in friendship named.
With strength unyielding, like ancient oak,
His presence resonated, a steadfast cloak.
Yet, a goofball's laughter danced in his stride,
Joyful moments, where humor would collide.
One of a kind, a unique blend unfurled,
An eclectic soul, a tapestry, swirled.
A lover of shores, with the beach as his muse,
He danced with the waves, a vibrant fuse.
A palette of purple adorned his dreams,
An artist's touch, where imagination gleams.
Confidence adorned his every step,
A free spirit's essence, untamed and adept.
Quick-witted banter, his words a delight,
A symphony of thoughts, sparkling and bright.
Kind-hearted gestures, compassion's embrace,
A collector of moments, woven with grace.
Musical chords echoed deep within his core,
A creative symphony, forevermore.
In this poem, a portrait emerges, you see,
Of Nicholas, a soul, now set free.
Though time may pass, his memory holds,
An ode to a spirit, whose story unfolds.
Losing my 28 year old son Geoffrey to Substance Use Disorder at the beginning of the pandemic was a heart wrenching and turbulent experience that is still difficult to bear six months later. I didn’t think I could possibly survive the devastation and heartache I felt the day my husband found our son -- deceased.
My greatest need initially was to enter a church and say a prayer for Geoffrey, but (because of COVID) -- the best I could manage was to enter an empty one and say a rosary with my siblings. There could be no service at the funeral home or at our church, so we made arrangements for one at the cemetery, since that was our only option. We then had to wait an additional week for Geoffrey’s burial because our daughter needed to quarantine per travel requirements from California. Our extended family was very supportive during this time, keeping in touch by phone and visiting once during the next week. We all attempted to do our best with the social distancing recommendations.
The maximum number of people allowed at the service was limited so there was not much planning to do. We chose a few songs for the vocalist and guitarist to perform during the ceremony. We were surprised and touched by the presence of our local Learn to Cope support group who stayed at a safe distance away but wanted to be there to support us.
My son Brian once shared with me the fact that he had overdosed seventeen times. He said, “Mom, some of my friends have died after the first overdose, but I am still here. God must have a plan for me if I haven’t died.”
I am here to tell you that heroin addiction stole the last ten years of this family’s life. It stole the future away from our beautiful son. It stole the present away from all of us as we waited for a miracle or the next phone call. Would it come from a hospital, a cop, a friend, or Brian with his standard greeting….” I need a huge favor”?
We needed a huge favor, too: A promise, a guarantee, a wish, and a hope that would never materialize. Our favor was never granted as Brian overdosed for the eighteenth and final time on May 3, 2015. He died on a bright, clear, sunny, blue-sky day, in the middle of the afternoon in our own home. Alone.
As the next several days unfolded, I began to find small snippets of gratitude. I am grateful he was home and not in some back alley, some basement, or some random bathroom. I am grateful I was the one to find him, not get a phone call from some other person leaving too many questions unanswered. I was able to backtrack and have a reasonable assumption of how the events unfolded and ultimately ended up fatally.
I took up the piano more seriously after Danny's passing. He was an amazing musician with a sharp ear and a lot of passion. Danny played the trumpet, piano, harmonica, and both the 6 and 12 string guitar. I was always in awe at his natural musical ability, particularly because he could not read a note of music. I play for Danny often, and when I am riddled with grief, anxiety, and still guilt, I play. It is where I can sit with Danny, as close as I can get to him. Sometimes I think he hears me, other times I just don't know. But on I continue........
A photo of a lamp with the lyrics to "Ripple" by Grateful dead on it
A heart in a vice grip.
Little Brother, forever 34 💜
As my son Danny's two year angelversary approached this piece came to me. I am grateful to have an outlet to express my grief. Enjoy!
Michael M drawings
Someone once said
Draw what grief feels like
So, I thought for a while
And closed my eyes
And drew a heart
With a giant crack
A gaping wound
Surely no one can survive such a wound
Yet there it was
I was still breathing
and my heart
Slowly I began to grow around it
Imagined cradling it in my hands
And the beat of your heart
In a place deep inside me
Where once you were safe.
And where nothing and no one
Can ever take you away again.
Time to accept that a part of me is gone forever.
Time to learn to live in this new reality.
Time to learn how to breathe again.
Time to forgive the silent friends.
Time to ignore foolish platitudes.
Time to think clearly and allow the fog to lift.
Time for joy to return.
In the meantime….. I wait, missing his laughter, his “mom can you do me a big favor?”, his hugs. Missing all of who he was to me, to our family, to his friends.
Sally Ponzio was driving to Florida in 2017 when her son, Travis, began talking to her about the disease of addiction and how he wanted her to write a song. Sally was puzzled because, although Travis loved music, she could not sing or read a note herself. When he persisted, Sally pulled over to the side of the road to capture his words, which came tumbling out faster than she could write them. This was even more puzzling since Travis had died of an overdose six months earlier.
I started writing the words that you were saying
On a napkin in my car
I had to pull over, I’ll never get over
Now that you’re gone
You said I’m alive in your broken heart
Let my love lift you, you can start a new start
Travis Ponzio was a bright, sensitive child. His mother says talking to him was like “playing a chess game.” He always seemed to have a plan, a strategy, but she embraced his individuality, and they shared a deep and loving relationship.
“People need to hear these stories, as uncomfortable as they are. It’s a step in the right direction to have public conversations that make us all more aware.”
Suzanne’s is one of those uncomfortable stories.
“My experience is best told on my son’s behalf. He’s no longer here to tell his story. I myself have been consistently sober for 36 years, however, the majority of alcoholics, including my son, are not as fortunate. Michael was born in 1976, but it wasn’t until he was in his 30’s that I was made aware of his bipolar diagnosis. Up to that point, Michael had been in constant pursuit of something to make him feel balanced and normal. Anything to take away the constant pain. I didn’t consider bipolar a factor at that time, although I was aware that addiction and mental illness often appear hand in hand”
When Michael entered his teens, Suzanne realized the extent of her son’s pain. Because of her years of recovery and her family history of alcoholism, Suzanne knew what was evolving. During this period, Michael went from being an Honor Roll student to not being able to graduate.
“The happy, carefree essence of my little boy no longer existed. Instead, a young man emerged, hell bent on self-destruction. His number one goal in life was to find the next party, the next drink, the escape from this place he was stuck in.”
High above the chatter of birds
The wailing of a mourning dove
Mouth closed; chest puffed
Coo- coo coo coo
It haunts the sleepy morning
Something deep within me stirs
A sadness that cannot be spoken
A silent, painful moaning
Mouth closed, hand over my heart
I reverently listen
Sometimes there are no words
As the waves crash
And wind blows
And the ancient carriers of secrets
Console me with their songs