Jeremy James Olson 6/11/70 – 6/1/09

June 1, 2016

Today is a day of remembrance. My plan was to take the day to myself, but my indecision forced me to work. I was doing my job and that by itself can feel like a way to honor my son who worked for everything he got in life and still remain true to his deepest self despite the voluntary suffering that entailed. I also “fasted.”

I lit a candle atop Jeremy’s ashes when I got home, and cooked the small meal within the calorie limitation of an intermittent fast. It is the only time I bother counting calories. I listened to some classical music while I cooked: chicken puttanesca swedish version. It bakes in a big green enabled cast iron pot from Wal-Mart, which is why I believe that Le Creuset is good stuff.

Relaxing after dinner I got an urgent text from work. A very nasty problem has emerged that will require very delicate handling. The spirit of the evening seemed broken. It was starting to rain, with the intensity forecast to increase as the evening ends. I asked Debby if she wanted to take a walk with Nigel and me. As we were leaving, she asked if she should put in her ear buds and listen to her music. This is how we ride bikes together – almost 2,000 miles last year.

I walk a lot faster than I used to, as set a fast pace, controlling my only recently leash-trained Rhodesian Ridgeback – Pit until he settles in. He stops to poop. I have a bag. The rain is lightly falling. The smells of the blooming of all the trees, bushes, shrubs, grass and other vegetable things fill my nose. When I finally start breathing deep breathes, all of my breathing passages open up.

Later in the walk, the rain coming more steadily, I spotted a rusty metal object on the street. I stooped to pick it up and examine it as I walked. It was two sheets of metal screwed tightly together with machine screws, still bound although departed from a much larger sheet. Only a brittle, rusty, ragged toenail of metal protruded from the two identical parts held together by the screws. I resisted an impulse to bend the protrusion back and forth until it broke off. I might have then smelled the end to see if any unusual fumes issued forth.

As we reach home, I showed Debby the piece of rusty metal I’d carried along with Nigel’s bag of poop. She asked, “What is it?”

“A message,” I said.




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