Journal 22

For my son, Scott, who died August 3, 1999

When you realize you haven't thought about him in the last
ten minutes, you're recovering.
When you fix your hair before you go out, you're recovering.
When you wonder how your other sons are doing,
you're recovering.
When you drive by Harry & David's for your favorite
peanut butter pretzels, you're recovering.
When you watch "Touched By An Angel" on TV
without feeling upset, you're recovering.
When you agree to see "Music From the Heart" at the
Foxgrape with a friend, you're recovering.
When you watch song sparrows eat millet, and finches thistle
at the bird feeder, you're recovering.
When you decide to bring out pictures of him with his
lamb-shaped cake on his first birthday & later, at thirty-five,
on his Kawasaki, you're recovering.
When you can talk to his friends about the loss they feel,
you're recovering.
When you look in your Moosewood cookbook for a new
vegetarian recipe, you're recovering.
When you find yourself laughing at Frazier or Seinfeld,
when you order "The Boy On the Green Bicycle" from
amazon.com, you're recovering.
When you look at young men his age and don't resent them,
you're recovering.
When you begin to watch what you eat, exercise on your
treadmill, you're recovering.
When you drive from Springfield, Missouri to Hartford,
Connecticut and back, you're recovering.
When you stop taking Xanax, you know you're recovering.
When you stop smelling his bathrobe & T-shirt in the
closet, you're recovering.
When you know you want to live, you're recovering.
When you decide to write a book in his honor,
when you forgive yourself for not knowing how
badly he needed you that last week, you're recovering.
When you cancel your appointment with your therapist because
you'd rather go to lunch, you're recovering.
When you can listen to the WW II CD's he gave you
for Christmas, you're recovering.
When you can throw away his junk mail, when you can
pack his clothes and put them away, you're recovering.
When you pass his papa sans chair without touching it,
you're recovering.
When you go half a day without crying, when you can
drive by the houses where he lived
in West Hartford, Connecticut, you're recovering.
When you can be a passenger in his Ford Escort with his
brother, Ken, driving, you're recovering.
When you can sit on his couch, now in his brother
Chris's house, you're recovering.
When you can read his old letters you've stored in
a file in your study, and when you begin planning
for tomorrow, you're recovering.
When you speak his name and "died" in the same sentence,
you are recovering.