By Maria McDonnell
@maria_mcdonnell_writes

Here’s the scene: I’m on the floor. I’m trying to remember. If I can gather all the pieces, then maybe I can pack them up. Put them in a locked box and swallow the key. I’m in the counselor’s office where I come to be brave. But I’m not brave. I come here and pull the cushions off the chair. I put them on the floor and fall on them. I curl into myself and weep for an hour. I’m cursing, but I don’t know who to curse. I’m angry, but I don’t know why. I’m buried under the choking weight of sorrow. I’ll never climb out of here.

*

Fade out/fade into the time when the world has just shut down. Schools and offices close. We learn how to use Zoom. April comes in sunny and warm enough to feel like hope.

*

A week into April, the first call comes on a Monday. The day before the pink moon. There are calls no mother wants to get. I’ve been on the line for too many. More than seems fair. But what is fair in this world?

*

It is sunset on Tuesday. My friends call each other and decide they will just come and sit in my yard. They can’t come in. They don’t know if I will come out. They will just come to be near. Storm clouds are gathering in the center of the state, but our skies are clear and bright with spring’s first full moon when they arrive. I am inside on the phone.

*

My therapist knows about the friends and the moon and the phone. He’s heard these stories before. He knows that the skies open later that night and the world breaks with thunder and violent light. It’s other parts I don’t remember like the voice on the phone and what I said. I don’t think I used words. A child enters the world to the primal sounds of his mother, beyond language. If that child leaves this world before his mother, her animal voice will follow him into the sky.

*

My oldest son held everything: light, laughter, and mischief. Curiosity, and noise. Motion and music and energy. He jumped over every line. He studied and he traveled and he fell deeply in love. He told us all he loved us. He promised he would be brave. He said everything he had time to say before he died when he was 26 years old.

*

I’ve spent three years sifting through shards of memory and music. Three years under a broken sky. I’ve spent three years immersed in the warm water of love. Because there is that too. There is movement and growth and grace. On the days when I am able to pull myself off the floor, there are arms to steady me. This is where I live now.

*

I open my door on April 7, 2020. After the final phone call. I may never remember what words were spoken, but I open the door knowing that my son is gone. I step into the night, and I am not alone. I am beyond thought, beyond reason. That night is only pink and raw. But I am in the middle of a circle. At the most dangerous crossing, there is a boat to step into. I can float there, with the people I love. Those people are with me still.

*

I wish more than this for you. I wish more for my children and my friends. But if the worst night comes for you if your phone rings and thunder breaks your heart, may you find yourself surrounded by the light of love, under an eternal moon. And may you know that you will rise one day and find yourself light and full of promise. May you know that you will rise.

Maria McDonnell is a college English instructor, academic coach, writer, and grad student who lives near Reading, Pennsylvania. She and her husband raised three sons and a lot of dogs. Aside from writing, she enjoys distance running, painting, and crossword puzzles. You can follow her here, and on Instagram.

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