The Thread

The Thread


41 years ago tomorrow my mom died. There is always a thread of that loss that weaves its way through me. It isn’t the fabric of my life’s apparel. It was for a time. No more.

But January 20 remains a marker of survival: a mother who couldn’t, a family who could.

Today the strangest thing happened. My precious Halpert and I decided to make a swing by the cemetery and say “hideedo” to our people (I drove), and just as I turned in, one of my dearest friends texted to tell me her mom has just died. I stopped the car. And I began to survey the losses sustained by the people I love: in the last few years, two of my soulmates have lost their dads, one a mom, another friend a dad, and one friend has lost both parents, and now this. “We aren’t going to weddings any more,” Beth said, as we went on our (near) daily walk through her neighborhood after I stood over Mom’s grave and cried the tears that flow without provocation. It just happens.

As a child, I was the only one with a dead parent. I wasn’t proud of it. Don’t get me wrong. But it made me different. I knew that.

Now my friends are joining the club to which no one wants a membership. Their pain is different than mine: they knew these parents, and these parents raised them. Pain is pain. And it is acute and fades not slowly. We need each other when there is pain, and when there isn’t.

Loss is wretched. Anticipating it, experiencing it, regretting it, and mourning it are not for the faint of heart. Nor is this blog post, I suppose. To my people, though, who suffer loss (and that is us one and all), the congruent truth is just as Mr. Rogers described when horror strikes: “look for the helpers.”

I have been surrounded by the void-filling, giving helpers every day since January 20, 1979. That’s the anniversary: 41 years of life’s fabric woven by the helpers.

Many, many thanks to you all. In the vast hereafter, Grace Ann Rowe thanks you, too. Of that, I am sure.

Alex

Jan 5, 2020

It’s been a couple strange days. I haven’t felt terrific but I have this terrific dog who sticks like glue to her Nance.

I am watching the Golden Globes and hearing the adorable Olivia Colman remark, “I’m a bit boozy. I didn’t expect this.” And Michelle Williams just delivered an eloquent plea for us all to vote in 2020. And Brad Pitt asked us to be kind tomorrow when we have the chance, after saying hello to his folks, who live here in Springtown.

But my heart aches for the Holdens. Alex Holden is 25 and has been missing since New Year’s Eve. He debated for me at Parkview for four years in my latter years as a coach. My absolute favorite thing about Alex was that—no matter what trouble he was in, no matter what hooey I was throwing at him as his demanding coach—he would grin. And I would melt. He charmed me when I didn’t want him to. He just had a way.

His talent was evident as a debater and as a performer. And he always swept his hair aside in an aristocratic way that cracked me up. Our high school was a place rooted in equal opportunity and lacked an element of fancy. That is a good thing. Alex had a way of relating to everyone but still being elegant. That’s it. He brought elegance to that debate room.

His senior year we faced an issue in which Alex’s credibility was challenged. At one point, in an isolated moment, he thought I doubted him. My kids called me “Wedge” then. It was my nickname. He looked at me with tears in his eyes and asked, “Wedge, don’t you believe me?”

I did believe him. And the look on his face at that moment is all I see now when I think of him. He is missing. Something has happened to this dear soul. He has family and friends who are desperate to see him again. I am among them.

So on this strange Sunday evening, I keep waiting for a word that is good. With Halpert asleep on my feet and glued to me, I hope Alex is okay, and he knows that we would all give anything for him to walk through the door, brush his hair aside, and grin that charming, slightly bull-shitting grin we love.

It’s been a strange several days. I pray I can recount them some day as miraculous. Come home, Alex.