Dia de Los Muertos

NOTE: This story is based on true events dramatized to convey my crisis of identity.

***

Purple, amber, and white flowers adorned the table like a garden club meeting. I cannot name them but know the colors. The sun faded over the horizon, and the shifting hues radiated its prisms onto the walls of my daughter's living room. I escaped the throng of people inside to find my thoughts in the backyard.

If I heard, "I'm sorry or I can't imagine," one more time, I might be arrested. The idiot in the three-piece suit, a banker, I think, asked, "How are you feeling?"

Feeling? How am I feeling? What a disingenuous and ignorant invasion of my world. I could have responded,

"I feel great, I'm so glad that my son is now six feet in the ground, and it's all over. Have a great day and thanks for asking?"

The rituals of ignorance at a funeral were exhausting, and I wanted to retreat to my mountain home. I said my perfunctory "thank you and goodbyes," like a polished statesman, and made the drive to the solitude of my cabin on White Oak Mountain.

****

I turned onto the Mountain Road and began the three-mile-long, three-thousand-foot climb through winding turns and switchbacks cut through granite. The green foliage with yellow and brown salted in its canvas showed signs that fall approached. A Whitetail doe with her fawn paused chewing grass and eased down a slope into the camouflage of the forest.

Love them while you can, I thought.

The final rise of the road brought me to the pinnacle and Lookout Point that faced south. Three thousand feet below, spread over miles, thousands of lights failed to emulate the celestial stars that spanned the heavens overhead and illustrated the temporal attempt to be that which we are not, gods.

I'd been gone for days and parked in the unilluminated gravel drive and navigated the walkway stones in the dark. Cautious of the mountains copious Rattlesnakes, that stole the warmth stored through the day, I moved slowly. On the porch, ethereal yellow blooms glowed like micro moons from a flower pot the size of a small tub. I carried them inside and read the attached note.

Visit any time you want to talk. The Marigold flowers are from my garden. Research them.

Norman

Norman lived the next ridge above me and never had much to say. Descended of German parents, he had retired last year as a general contractor after a faulty heart valve had almost ended his life. His European accent was as clipped as his few but wise words. I did not doubt that the houses he had built illustrated the same efficiency.

Exhausted yet devoid of the urge to sleep, I migrated to the back deck with a glass of Pinot' Noir, sat in an Adirondack chair, and stared into the heavens like a lobotomized mental patient.

The sunrise woke me from the involuntary sleep my body demanded from my chaotic mind. I shivered from the dew-soaked shirt and went to the kitchen and brewed coffee. I reread the note, sipped my java, and opened my laptop to research.

I learned the Marigold, Mari's gold, was a part of the Calendula family, which is the Latin name that means "little clock." The effervescent bloom held a rich history throughout the world. Sacrificial floral gifts, in Europe, were made to various deities and families who had lost loved ones received Marigolds in a long-held tradition. Garlands made from large quantities of the golden flower were included in weddings and festivities in India.

The amber and yellow blossoms were dominant in the Calling of the Dead celebrations in Mexico. The Dia de Los Muertos, translated, the Day of the Dead, was a significant festival for families to welcome, remember, and celebrate the lives of those that had perished from the earth. The Marigold was believed to have magical powers and represented the resurrection of the dead.

What the hell, what kind of wisdom is this? I thought.

****

Timeless days of isolation passed into weeks, and I knew that mourning my twenty-year-old son, James Jr, had altered my life forever, but I had to make a choice. Either I learn to manage my loss or dissolve into the dirt from which I had come.

The darkest night came , and the allure of the three hundred-foot cliffs behind the cabin called to me with a promise to end the numbness. I found myself mesmerized and staring into the void. With one step, I could take flight into the unknown and end the anguish. My teetering with escape was interrupted when my cell phone played my daughter's musical ringtone. I stepped back, dropped to the ground, and sobbed while the song, Angel, by Sarah Mclachlan echoed off the mountain. Between gasps, I punched the "Can I call you later?" text message.

The following morning, I decided it was time to visit Norman. The steep hike up the ridge would do me good, and I needed his help. I wanted to understand his wisdom.

The cabin sat below the roadbed on a terrace carved out from the mountainside. Thirty miles distant, you could see the brown, green, and lime quilted scape of farms and ranches below. Norman's wife, Stella, led me to the back where he sat in a wheelchair whittling a stick. He enjoyed carving out wooden bears for his grandchildren. Stella served us iced tea and left us to it.

I thanked him for the flowers, and Norman eyed me with compassion as he handed me a knife and a thick stick. He said, "Whittle, son," and we sat in silence and shaved wood for a good half hour.

"James Jr. was a good boy," Norman said, "I always enjoyed his visits the times he came to help us."

"He came to help you?" I said.

Norman chuckled, "He didn't tell you? That doesn't surprise me."

"What do you mean?" I said.

"It was just his way, and the fond memory means even more to me now," Norman said, "I believe that's the key to having lost someone. Finding the memories and holding them dear. Though their time has come in this world, they live forever, through us. Dia de Los Muertos, the day of dead is a day to celebrate their lives. That's our job, and it sounds like you have work to do."

"Why the Marigold's?" I said.

Norman pointed to the rail of the deck and said, "Look under the deck."

Marigolds carpeted the entire fifty-foot width of the ground under the twelve-foot-deep deck. The brilliant buttery yellow carnation-like flowers were a hubbub of bees, hummingbirds, and butterflies.

"Norman that is a beautiful flower garden. How do you maintain it with your health?" I said.

"That's the beauty of it James, I planted the first seeds and over the years they've done the rest themselves. Marigolds self-propagate when they die by shedding their seeds into the soil. I only had to take the first step," he said.

"How old is that garden?" I asked.

"The day I lost my daughter Mary, twenty years ago, my mother gave me an arrangement of Marigolds, it's a European tradition after a funeral. The flowers died over time, but my anger didn't. The blooms withered to seed-heads, and I threw the pot off the deck. What was once beautiful, I smashed onto the ground," he said and paused to sip tea.

"The following spring, we renovated the deck. Stella asked me, 'Norman, did you plant these?' A cluster of Marigolds had risen from its own seeds and sprung up from the earth. The garden has expanded itself over the years. I call it Mary's garden. That day, I realized it was my job to keep the goodness of my daughter alive and live my life to the fullest. James, you have work to do."

I stayed for lunch and made the trek home to the solitude of my cabin.

****

Norman's gift and experience had planted a seed of hope in my mind. I called my daughter, and we made plans to spend time together.

We met at her house, and I realized her pain came not only from the loss of a brother but, for a while, she'd lost her father.

They say that tears are for the living, and we had reason to cry, but my daughter showed me that we also have a reason to laugh and live. She told me that they were expecting a baby, a boy, and I rediscovered the feeling of joy.

The mysteries of the circle of life that caused so much anguish had rebirthed happiness and filled our void. I had brought her a flowerpot of Marigolds and explained their significance, and they became a center point of our healing together.

****

In late October, the tub of Marigolds withered and died. I prepped the ground under my deck and scattered and buried the deadheaded blooms and waited.

The following spring, the Marigolds returned in their golden splendor like a beacon on the mountain. Their radiant existence bridged the fissure between the heavens and the earth in my mind and heart.

I invited friends and family for a weekend on the mountain, and we shared memories of my son's life. We celebrated our Dia de Los Muertos, Marigolds, and a newborn baby's cry, my grandson, JJ.

Through our memories, he lives forever. The experience yielded laughter and tears that built new memories. Over the years, my son has grown in my mind. His life story, like the Marigolds, has kept coming back.

If the banker from the funeral asked his obsequious question today, "How are you feeling?" I'd say, "I’m alive in the present with a hope for the future."

Next spring, those that visit the mountain will be made welcome. The Marigolds await.

Written in memory of my son Hampton Wade. 11/20/1997 - 09/27/2018