I visited with a friend yesterday. She offered me a warm white tea. It wasn't the only thing we shared. She also lost her son this year. Like my child, she was an adult who had lived in addiction and on the streets for years.
When my son relapsed and died after rebuilding a clean life for years, her son Ryan died from pneumonia and Covid-19 while in recovery.
Ryan was moved from the house by the sea with a tire swing next to the coast to an ambulance. The person who played when he was young. One person, my son Ray, spun around when he was 9 to 10 years old. When joy was easy.
Ryan's ambulance wasn't due to overdose. He was sick. His fear of hospitals and his past experiences made him ignore symptoms until it was too late. His heart and lungs had compromised from years of drug use and this time, they didn't bounce back.
A few months ago, he returned home to live clean and sober. He started a new hobby. He was trying to start the job he was excited about. Ryan and his younger sister rekindled their close relationship. The person who kept them alive for a lifetime. His parents, stepmother, uncles, and cousins were delighted to wander the forest and take sea walks with these young people who now enjoy photography. He had quite an eye. His professional photographer friend was giving him tips and encouraging his new interest.
His nieces and nephews were thrilled with the life they shared with Uncle Ryan. He attended hockey games and dance recitals. He jumped on the trampoline and rode bikes with them on the trails near the house.
When he died before he was even a year old, he finally broke his family's heart.
My friend, his mother, set up the Christmas tree yesterday. When I sat in her living room, she handed me a small piece of wood heart carved from a branch. It was inscribed with "I love Mom." Perhaps one of the crafts made at school was carefully wrapped and brought home to be placed under the Christmas tree. To be opened by Mom...