My Son Is Not Here, But He Is Everywhere
June, 2020
We pulled into our favorite condo on the Florida Gulf Coast in Miramar Beach, our first “getting out” since the pandemic struck in March and our tragedy in April. A light drizzle fell as we unpacked the blue Honda Odyssey, previewing Tropical Storm Cristobal that was bolting north from Mexico for a visit. Our son Daniel was not there. Now, neither were our older sons Brandon and Matthew, but they were coming later in the week. Instead, the remains of Daniel were sitting in a beautiful light gray urn, in his empty bedroom, in our empty house.
I drove down to Kenny D’s, one of our go-to beach dive restaurants, to get takeout for us. The by now steady rain made sloshy puddles that blocked the steps up to the gray deck and crayon graffiti decorated diner. As I waited at the bar while New Orleans born Kenny himself rummaged around the orders, I could look at every table and figure we had sat there with Daniel over the 15 years we had come to this diner. There was my son.
Sunday the storm howled through, with the pulsating and raging tide eating up all but a few feet of the beach. Lori and I worked on a 1000 piece puzzle with pictures of many colorful doors. It was impossible for Daniel to not be there, as the last night we had him with us he helped Lori on a similarly colorful puzzle of ice cream and toppings. We saved the last piece of that ice cream puzzle for him to put in, if he survived the 18 agonizing days he was in the ICU. It now sits in our house, taped to the otherwise complete puzzle, upside down, with “Daniel” written on it in blue pen. That night the wind howled, the windows shook, and palm tree leaves went horizontal. Noise, bedlam, and the power of nature kept us from sleeping well, leaving our minds to wander in and out of grief for who wasn’t in the bedroom down the hall.
Monday afternoon, the storm was leaving and the sun snuck out in the afternoon. We set up our usual two umbrella two beach chair camp a few feet from the pounding surf, Late teen and early 20s boys bounced around on boogie boards in the 8 foot waves, ignoring the double red flags that “closed the water”. Our son would also not have cared about the rules around double red flags. Daniel was there.
Tuesday came and was nice weather all day, as the waves began to recede closer to the placid gentle surf that let the emerald waters shine next to the gleaming white sand in this incredibly beautiful part of the world. I sat reading, as I always do. To my left a father held a small boy by the arm and played in the first few feet of the surf and the boy giggled away as his dad would jerk him up and over the small waves that lapped at their feet. To my right another dad was throwing a football with a skinny awkward tween, and the still higher than average wind was making the boy constantly dive into the waves to get the pass. How could I not see Daniel and me, on similar days over the years, diving for the football or frisbee. Later a rail thin pale kid with a mop of unruly hair tried to skim board at the end of the surf. Lori and I had left our skim board at home when we packed, Daniel was the only one athletic enough in the family to be able to do it. Our son was not here, but he was everywhere.
Later Lori bumped into Katie, who was from a family that we had seen a few times before at this beach, especially when we had our foster daughters for a few years. “How are your boys”, she asked, as normal as a sunrise. “I’m sorry to have to tell you”, Lori said, and several minutes of pain ensued. The next day we struck up a conversation with our condo neighbors, an all American young couple with two cute boy toddlers, complete with a Ritz Carlton sun shirt for both. “How many kids do you have?”, the mom asked. “Two”, we said. Daniel was here yet not here. We had no energy to explain to strangers.
Brandon and Matthew came on Wednesday night in their white Ford Focus, and we were overjoyed to see them. But I could almost will myself to see Daniel arriving also in his somewhat ratty green Toyota Tacoma, or “The Taco” as we called it, just as he came on his own last summer to this same spot, our spot, our families’ spot, our respite from the world.
Thursday we all went to pastel adorned Pompano Joes, perched right on the public beach, our favorite place to eat. “And how many in your party”, the gaudy orange Hawaiin shirt hostess asked. “Four” I said. That is wrong. Our family is “five”, it had been for 20 years. How could it be four? Daniel is not here.
On Friday Brandon, Matthew and I went deep out in the surf, as we were always wont to do. The storm was a distant memory, and the placid waters were now clear and warm and beautiful. We looked at the far sandbar, a hundred or so yards offshore. The three boys and I would always swim out to it, every year. We didn’t go. It wasn’t the same. We did though have an engaging and meaningful conversation. But they also had the look in their eyes, of seeing Daniel everywhere, when he was not here.
After packing up the beach in the evening, we went to take a quick swim in the pool, another family tradition. We reminisced about the silly diving, tag, and Marco Polo games we would play in that pool. Then we were quiet. I could almost hear his voice, making a smart alec comment, not wanting to get his lush curly brown hair wet, poking at his phone, but enjoying the company of his brothers. The brothers had been a solid three for two decades, as close as they get. Only two now. A gaping hole. Daniel is so here, though he is gone.
I wonder now how I will answer the inevitable questions when we return home Sunday. “How was the beach? Did it help you with your grief? Was it relaxing at all?” I am not sure if there is an easy answer. We enjoyed the food, beach, and togetherness as a family. That much is certain. I hate to rip off a cliché line but it fits me — “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times”. For you see, my son Daniel was not here, but he was everywhere.