Moving On

Here's the thing they never told me
you never get your life back
not really
oh you can watch TV or take a walk downtown
and you might even laugh sometimes.
You'll notice the way the sunlight hits your daughter's golden locks
and it will be enough to make you want to cry.
Your best friend will grab your hand most Saturday nights
so you won't feel alone
but that old life dissapated
as the earth was dug up around his coffin.

Every step is courage defined
and hanging on is hope itself.

No one ever "got better" from death,
not those who left us
or we who stayed behind.

Walking With Ghosts

And you are always there
fleetingly
but just enough so that I know I am not really alone.
You hang on in my mind
as it should be, yes.
Just as it should be.

Not forgotten.
Not of this life
and yet you watch the birds with me every morning
the moon and stars every night
so I continue to really look at things
and grab toward beauty.

This gift
of walking
with a ghost.

We had to walk away from Dylan's grave and those steps were some of the hardest I have ever taken. Jason stayed right by my side and we sort of held on to each other as we walked away. Later we talked about how awful it was and how much we wanted to just stay with him, even though rationally we both knew he was gone.

In the weeks following his death, I spent a lot of time at home. It was hard to go anywhere, partly because other people's comments cut through me (I had several people ask me if I was pregnant or when are you due?) and partly because I was also waiting for a phone call that never came. Since I could not rationalize his death, I partly convinced myself that it had all been a terrible mistake. I used to imagine getting a telephone call from the hospital saying it had all been some sort of a mix up. I had the entire conversation worked out in my head including my forgiving response. First I had to let Dylan go and then I had to let this fantasy dissipate as well.

Dear Dylan,

I'm writing this just a few days before what should be your sixth birthday and even though it is late August, we are having some cooler weather here in Ashland. I wonder if it is cold in Tumalo and then I remember that it doesn't really matter since you are not there. Your stone Winnie-the-Pooh is there and I suppose your bones are too, but the essence of who you are is not. It has taken me a long time to really understand that. It was hard for me to leave you out there and walk away. I really didn't want to, baby. I didn't want to let you go. It wasn't my choice, but since then I have also learned that you had some lessons to teach us. Some were ones that I struggled with, like letting go of people I love and understanding that this lifetime is not everything. Some were more simple. Like being kind to other people because we do not know how much time we will be given and cherishing other people. I am a better person because of you.

I wanted you to know that we are all remembering you. Actually I think about you every day, but I think you already know that in some way.

At your funeral, I asked our friends and family to remember you by doing kind things for other people and we are quietly doing some good this week for you.

When I think about all of the things that have happened to us since 1998, I can't help but be grateful that our family is still intact. I used to think that losing a child would draw people together, but losing you taught me that the opposite is closer to the truth. I am grateful that our family is still strong.

I miss you. I wish I could make you a big birthday cake and give you a huge hug. Your dad, Sierra, Madison and I all love you very much! Love MOM

Wearing the Truth of Pain

Blame pursued me into ebony corners
where I huddled alone, unforgiving and unloved. 
Rattled in my own guilt.
I stayed there for a long time
and nobody thought to try and look for me.
No one noticed I wasn't there until I came back,
and only then they said "oh, there you are,"
as if that was supposed to be enough.

It never was.

But I also learned that longing for revenge
only makes you grow older.
You only get to go home once the tour is over.

Omen

In mid-August I dreamed dark dreams of loss and grief,
tears and pain so deep I almost couldn't breathe
and I woke up wondering
where the angels were?

He lived inside me then.

I'd feel his sharp movements
and convince myself everything was okay.
Tried to steer myself away from the warning
while I folded baby clothes and cleaned.

And kissed by the lips of God, I forgot.

A week before the end, I stumbled upon a book
and devoured it-- the first book I ever read about loss.
Sleep was elusive, so I read every night.
I studied Angels, tried to find peace.

And admired the tiny baby shoes I had gathered.

Every Saturday night, for years
I mourned his weekly anniversary.
My empty arms dripping with the chalice of my tears
and the awful ache of my own misery.

Forgotten by God and the angels.

Hands


If your hands were sand dunes they would be exquisite.
Sepia browns, wrinkles and lines,
maps of something unknown.
If your hands could talk, what stories would they tell?
Of love, grief, pain?

Ripples, patterns of wind and water
constantly changing and eroding,
thousands of crevices
stretched across time.

Hands the color of Tuscon
and old sage,
Saddle tan
and memories of gold.

Rituals

Today is the sort of day
where I would be
sitting in the cemetery
underneath the old Juniper tree
next to the stone winnie the pooh..

Listening to the sad songs the birds sing
and watching for deer tracks and signs of rabbits.

I would be thinking some thoughts to him
and hope he was listening.

I'd brush off his headstone again
and leave a coin or a stone
and then grab his stuffed Pooh bear
and pour some momma love into him,
to tide him over until next time.

But I've learned that our connection
is not lessoned by miles.
So I think my thoughts to him
and I know he hears me.

Lessons

I once stared at the ocean
and tried to find that part of myself that was swept with the tide
but it was just like the lottery--
my luck is rotten.

In Newport we clung together by the fire
and tried to remember what love was
and what it wasn't.
We camped under the stars and watched the September sky.
We were alone, together.

I counted waves and memorized the sand.
And waited. We both did.

Inquiry

Is it that poets automatically have hard lives
or do hard lives create poets?

Hiding

I've run away from the truth
for years
hidden around corners
and behind trees
in a bizarre game of tag.

I thought I was winning.

I dropped a few hard words off at times
like death and acceptance
but some wouldn't hop off me,
like rage and guilt.

I fooled myself into thinking I was ahead.

And I'm still hiding behind trees
and over hills
because it is comfortable now, at least.

Lost

I was there the whole time
and yet there are years that I can't remember anymore.
I shut down
in order to survive
the guilt that was always there lurking.

Some people never get "missing" signs made up for them.

Wiped Out

How could I get stuck in a life
so full of complications and insanity?
Not quite middle-aged, my head is slow
and my body is so tired all the time.
I hear myself saying things like,
"After I do the dishes we can look through the business plan."

And I bore the hell out of my own self.

I used to be the girl who got drunk and danced in the fountain in front of student health.
I used to make people laugh.

In this dry, dusty, sticker-filled place, my sons body has turned to bone and dust in that little wooden box we approved. We buried him in a warm little suit, even though it was late August, because we knew the snow would be heavy and somehow just couldn't bear the thought of him lying there cold and alone. As crazy as I knew it was, I wanted to stay out there with him. Taking those first steps away from his coffin on the day of his funeral, was one of the hardest things I have ever done.

Part of me is still out there with him.

I reconstructed a life, not because I wanted to, but because I looked at my then four year old daughter, and knew that I had to. For her. At first it was all pretend, but I have gotten better at it over the years. I am mostly okay. But there are still moments when I will catch myself watching a little boy and wondering if Dylan would be like that now. That part of it never goes away.

Dylan wound up with two headstones. Both were carved by his Great Grandmother. The first stone just says "Dylan" and that sat on his grave for a few months. She eventually carved a second stone which included his last name and the day he died. When the second stone was taken out to Tumalo, we wound up taking the first stone home. It has since been moved from apartment to apartment and currently sits near our front door. I suppose it is an odd looking thing to have, but we were at a loss as to what to do with it. So it sits in our little garden area. A stone reminder of a little boy who never got a chance to fly a kite or to count the stars with us.

For Jason

You carried October in your back pocket
and taught me about the night sky
while we laughed
over brutal, dark, things that few would understand.
You knew me.

You are always secretly kind
to little kids and old people alike
and strong
in ways that I am weak.

You carried grief for me when I needed a break.
You stayed.
Fought. Loved. Me.

Quietly, strongly you.
And I am lucky for it.

Tears

For years your mother cried in the early mornings
when sleep would not come
and she sat and thought of your birth and your death
and tried to put it all into words.

How can something so pure, like love, hurt so damn much?

The Power of Love
By Vanessa Houk

If someone were to ask me, "How can you possibly survive the loss of a child?", I'm sure I would just stare at them blankly and wouldn't be able to come up with an answer and yet August 29 will mark the five year anniversary of my son, Dylan's death. Somehow I am still here. When I think back to 1998 and the years that have followed, I remember many times when I did not want to be. Over the years I have tried to describe what that pain feels like, but I have come to the conclusion that there are no words for it. That void is huge.

Losing a child changes a family, changes a marriage. Love is powerful though, and ultimately that is what saved us.

Grief is private. Even though you can have people supporting you, nobody else can feel your feelings and nobody else can face that darkness. In some ways I felt like I had also lost my closest friend-- my husband who was simply unable to be my sounding board. He hurt for me and I hurt for him and collectively our pain was just too much to handle. So we learned to respect that and on the rare occasions when we talk about our respective grief, it is done cautiously. It is a great testament to our love and friendship that our marriage is still strong. Many marriages, when faced with such a loss, are not as fortunate.

I thought we were all mostly okay and then my four year old daughter came to me and had this conversation.

"Mom, we used to be so happy, huh?"
"Yes," I said. "We were happy."
"And then Dylan died and now we have all been so sad."
I nodded.
"Mom, when will we be happy again?"

Up until her brother's death, her world had been full of walks down the long, dirt road to the mailbox and watching for baby birds nesting in the trees near the cabin we lived in. The closest she had come to death was when one of mean momma cat's babies died. Nothing had come close to preparing her for this. Nothing prepared any of us.

That fall she could have entered pre-school, but the thought of sending her away, even just for a few hours was inconceivable to me. She was my reason for getting up and facing each day. When I wanted to hole up and stay home, she would cajole me to take her to the park so she could swing higher and higher. She pointed to birds and flowers and made me see beauty again. "Look at that!," she would say. And on the days when I could barely drag myself out of bed in the morning, she would be there. "I love you.," she would remind me. She kept me going.

We tried to reenact some sort of a life. Those months were a lot like trying to get around a large city without the benefit of a roadmap, or a guide. I was lost a lot of the time. I felt like a different person and my old life just didn't fit me anymore. I had to find new things to do. We moved away from Central Oregon and eventually made our way back home to Ashland.

Slowly, time passed and simple things began to ground me again. The taste of a perfectly ripe peach, seeing the ocean, the scent of baked apples and cinnamon. These tiny things added up and I found my way back. And I have learned that life is a gift and love transcends time.

Fear
She wears her fear
as a tightly woven navaho blanket
stretched across the bitter wrinkles of her forehead
down her curved back
and all the way down to the soles of her feet.
She avoids eye contact, rarely speaks above a whisper.
Life has overpowered her.


I've never seen a picture of her
nor can I remember her name
but I've carried her story inside my head for years.
She lived in South Africa,
Sierra Leone to be exact.
I read that soldiers kidnapped her and were holding her captive.
She was raped, but that was not the worst part.
The worst was that when she was taken she had just had a baby who was stillborn.
So all these years I have imagined this poor woman,
who was dead inside
long before they beat her.

Some Words I Hate
Letting go.
Getting over it.
Closure.
Moving on.
And one more:
Stillborn.

Gathering Strength
It took me years
to reach a place
where I could say your name
without a sob escaping.
We used to lie together at night
and whisper thoughts and dreams
while the house slept.
And I knew you best.
You grew inside me all those months.
I hoped and loved and wished
for your joyous birth.
But you died the day you were born.
I lost myself too.
We were that connected.
And now I've discovered there's more for me to do.
So I whisper your name often
and I remember your sweetness
and I gather strength.

In memory of Dylan Dakota Houk, stillborn August 29, 1998.


Hush
Not many poems are written
about dead babies
because if you've never held a lifeless body
and watched blueish skin turn colder
you just don't want to think about it
and if you have searched
a tiny face, trying to memorize features
knowing it is the only time you'll have
you don't want to think about it either.
So the poems are silent.

"I didn't say it would be easy. I just said it would be the truth." - Morpheus

You shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you mad.
--Aldous Leonard Huxley British writer

It does not require many words to speak the truth
--Chief Joseph

Truth sits upon the lips of dying men.
--Unknown

Speak the truth, but leave immediately after.
--Slovenian Proverb

And finally from Mark Twain...The difference between truth and fiction: fiction has to make sense

And then the cat gets into a snit.
After all these nights he has sat on one side of the glass door
while the coons are on the other side
and they all watch each other
peacefully like
until tonight when he gets into a snit
and growls and hisses and tries to be so big.
Who are you, George W Bush, I ask him
while I am also spilling some cat food on the floor to appease him.
The coons are still watching
nervousness in their eyes...
just like the poor watch Washington.

Some Truth

when I was a young poet
I had time
but nothing juicy to write about.
I didn't know death
or sorrow
like I do now.
Hell, now we are on a first name basis.
Now I have so much to say
and I am running out of time.

Love hard
watch the sky every day
and live without borders.
That's what I'm talking about.

When you close your eyes
make sure you are DONE.

Relations
So all you want
is to connect with me
just for a moment.
You want to forget
that your rent is late (again)
and that your shoes are falling apart.
All you want is to dive into me
and pilfer my best ideas,
my courage and my grace.
So you can forget who you are
while you strip whatever is left of me away.
It won't ever be enough, you know.

Celestial Lessons
Two in the morning
the raccoons and I watch each other warily
while they eat and I type
crunch of dry cat food
click of the keyboard
even the birds are asleep.

My mind however, is not quiet in the early morning.

Racing around corners of my psyche
and hoarding loyalty
is hard work that pierces the mind.
gentle words will come
like sequestered thoughts
the moon is a good listener.

Funeral Day
On the day we buried our son, our families all left by mid-afternoon
and there was just me and Jason and our 4 year old daughter
and I was so blasted tired, but I couldn't sleep
I was afraid to sleep.
So I turned on the TV and just listened to the voices
and waited
for time to pass so I could feel better
because everybody said that time would do the trick.
And I popped painkillers every three hours.
and tried to climb back into the fog.
Sierra was stung by a bee.
Nothing made sense to me.
Everything had changed.
I was trying to hold on to my little family
and I was so scared.


I remember wandering through that apartment and it wasn't my home anymore.
His baby bassinet was gone, as I had requested,
but some of his things were still there.
I couldn't stand to look at them
and at the same time I wanted to memorize them.

Everything I had ever believed about fairness or truth
dissipated and I was left shaking my head and trying to find some hope to cling to.
Eventually my body began to heal
but it took a lot longer
for my head to catch up.

Random
Even knowing how much it was all going to hurt
I still wouldn't have wished you away.

Even the raccoons have left me.
The cats eyes are weeping
my power bill is 32 days past due
and the phone bill goes unpaid
my sense of humor is cheap anyway-- and dark and brutal.

I've always lived close enough to train tracks
so that I can hear the last late night whistle.
It's just enough country to center me.

Cemetery

I carried dirt from his grave site
to the Japanese Garden
and left some of him there
so I could come and visit
when I needed to.

Some sacred places
exist quietly
without fanfare
without signs
that garden is a much a cemetery
as Tumalo is.

I can sit at the top of the creek
and listen to the water
and count blossoms
and quietly remember my son.

At first glance it is a desolate place. Scrub-brush and cheat grass and an almost endless wind that blows through and shakes the branches of the juniper trees. The oldest headstones are from the late 1800's. It is a tiny country cemetery in Tumalo, Oregon, in the high desert between Bend and Sisters. Four and a half years ago my son Dylan died at birth and that little cemetery became my strongest link to him. He is buried underneath his great grandfather's favorite juniper tree, right next to his great-great grandparents Otis and Grace, who are remembered as being kind people. This is an odd comfort to me.