One, Two, Three, Right Now

Susanna's drawing of her Mooshka doll Easter, 2014

I searched for a file in my memory, an MTV music file. The song is “Right Now” by Van Halen. With Sammy Hagar, after David Lee Roth had left. The video is full of thought provoking bits of text and I have always remembered this line: “Right now it’s cold where someone you love is”. The imagery is of a cemetery, perhaps suggesting that “cold” means gone and buried in the ground, but I do not think so. I have retained the line for all of these years because I think it means that all people have their share of days where they feel no proverbial sunshine. Just something to be aware of, while you go through your life as a conscious human with loved ones.

This weekend is difficult for me. Easter was later than April 5 last year, and was two days before Susanna died. The year has come almost full circle, with or without me. I am still holding out for the return of joy and peace. In all honesty, I feel about a millimeter closer to peace, though I can see it approaching every day. In its own time. I can only speak for myself but I believe my small family is proud of having put one foot in front of the other every day, be it with great trepidation most of the time. We are still here, even though it is still cold where we are.

On “Good Friday” last year, Susanna and I went shopping together in the mall for spring clothes. I remember feeling a dull and achy anxiety and dissatisfaction that day, and for all of spring break. I had a feeling that time was running out in some way. It was. In contrast, Susanna had such a beautiful and peaceful day. She chose four dresses, two of which she never wore. She ate two large slices of pizza and brought home two bags of pink and blue cotton candy, which sat in the cabinet for weeks until they evaporated into hard piles of sugar. What she really wanted to do was ride the escalators. I taught her that day to count as it was time to step off, one, two, three, now! I wanted to help her know how to keep from stumbling. She loved it so much as a game that we did it over and over. When I ride escalators now, I try to remember to count as I get off, and to feel her hand. It is hard to have a quiet enough mind to remember, right now, but sometimes I do.

By trishfreer

Mother, writer, artist and teacher grappling with grief and loss.

1 comment

  1. I have loved a child who died. I had the experience you describe of
    ” now ness ” which I believe is the real awake life. I feel your missing of Susanna and your healing living self sending love to you friend


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