"They Will Never Tell What They Know"
We now believe that Owen died on May 31, 2007. This belief comes mostly from our conversations with people who knew him here in town, who've shared things they couldn't possibly know…unless they were there.
Some have admitted to me, personally, that they will never tell what they know. We continue to struggle over the fact that the authorities won't share their findings. They won't, and we don't get it.
When the anger wells up in me, knowing what I know, my internal monologue is housed much like a freeze frame in a movie. The time that passes, is indeed, dramatic, and I am generally silenced by my need to stay intact. I wonder repeatedly, though, what would happen if I let it all out? Just wondering, allows me to let the anger and frustration inch its way out, to talk with those closest to me, and to ease into discussions of what's next.
Grief Too Big
Families with similar experiences of unexpected, unknown, and undocumented child loss such as ours, deal with the aftermath in a number of ways. Many go silent. Many retreat to the four walls that surround them, from sunup to sundown, with whatever coping skills are afforded them. Sleep is a gift, and rarely undisturbed.
Few of us fight the systems that prevented us from getting all the help we're led to believe is available to families with missing adults. The grief is simply too big, too unforgivable. If we gathered our communal screams of pain into a single voice, the sound would stop the rotation of the Earth.
This journey is painful in ways none of us ever imagined, and most cannot fully acknowledge. Our family simply won't let the story end without a new beginning. The new beginning is our hope, our search for beauty, and our knowing.
"We See Owen Everywhere"
Freeze frame: On the evening of April 25, 2007, I took two photographs of Owen sitting at our computer. He was playing an online poker game, drinking a Coke, and watching TV. These are our last photographs of him.
Freeze frame: I'm driving in my car, listening to music that Owen loved. I hear a phrase, a dissonant chord, and I scream into the windshield. I gasp for my next breath, and wipe the tears away to see the roadway in front of me. I make my way home on auto-pilot. It's as though my horse can find the way, and I'm the wounded rider.
Melting, morphing, and meandering into the future: We see Owen everywhere. We see him in motion, whether through actual memories, or hopeful imaginations. We see him in moths flying toward light; in the sun's rays just before and during sunset; in waves rolling toward the shore; in children playing on swingsets; in the eyes of deer staring back at us; in young people playing hacky-sack on a hometown waterfront; in dragonflies buzzing just off the surface of The River; and in his silhouette…asleep in his room…shoes thrown aside…with his hand saving the place of the last page he read in a book of poetry.
From Owen's journals:
Naval dark starAnd,
Wonderland
This place is being burned by some new moon
Morning star
Meets the sun
To construct new plays.
This is what I thinkIf we know anything, we know that hope dies last. My hope for you, Owen, is that your life story can be useful, meaningful, joyful, for those left behind. My hope for us, is that we can learn from your trust, your message, your love. Your poetry will live on, as you wanted. I will make it so, Owie. I love you bigger than the sky. – Mom, xoxo
To the everyday people
I forget all your fear
Get a hold of yourself
Take a Polaroid.
