A month after my 17 year old son's earthly shell joined his spirit, I was up in the mountains chasing waterfalls with a man I loved but had not yet told. I needed a body of water to baptize my grieving being into. An experience to remind me that I was not numb, that my heart, while broken, was a mosaic, reflecting light and still beating in my chest. Some describe child loss as an unyielding emptiness. Yet, I found myself on the other end of the spectrum—filled with every present and dormant emotion. The grief taking residence in my nerves, turning them bad and heavy.
I’d wake up nearly unable to move after having the most vivid dreams of the dead that were not mine to claim or the living that I could not claim. Some days I’d submit to the weight of the grief—lying in the bed until its stronghold lessened.
I was ready to surrender to the healing balm of the water.
Before our trek to the unfamiliar, I walked to the river I know under the ripe July sky. Resting on a bench, I attract a solo, ochre ladybug. The most ladybugs I ever saw at one time swarmed us on Alabama red clay outside my granddaddy’s funeral. Conversations with near strangers doubling as relatives, the ladybugs dripping from their Sunday’s Best. Lord knows, we all needed that good luck after 18 hours by Club Wagon from up north. Out in the middle of somebody’s somewhere, the indigo sky wrapped around the spirit of the trees. Looking like there were souls trapped in the stars. My ancestors winking at me.
Two hours later in a place where the deer do what they want, we make a short trek from the car and find, tucked between trees, our piece of loaned oasis. The leaves an abundant and welcomed covering in the July heat. We encounter a massive wall of visible roots belonging to a flowering tree on our way to the mouth of the falls. Scaling the ancient rocks at its base, I make it to the top and roll the thick, emerald foliage between my thumbs. Reminding me of the lush patch of ivy that used to exist in front of my house. Its leaves, waxy and thick.
Each season, it defied the odds. I didn’t think it capable of dying. Until the poison ivy came, a botanical chameleon, masterful at blending in until revealed by the changing seasons. Simple excavation nearly impossible, its roots attempting to dominate the ivy while its leaves an umbrella, shading the sun’s favor. I failed to protect it from the charming, colorful intruder. The ivy would eventually starve from my neglect.
*
I navigate the thick roots of the tree and find myself atop the rocks again. I feel a song in my spirit and I lift my hands to the heavens and slice the air in half with my hips. Joy still present in this weary body. No one calls this joy obscene to my face and yet it looms in the air like a nuisance I don’t bother to swat away. Many survivors of tragedy often grapple with feeling underserving of happiness. Daily, I am absolving myself of these complicated negotiations.
Atop the opening of a stream that feeds the waterfall, we balance our bodies on nature's footstools, our feet parallel above the cool see-through spring. The chilly vapors kissing the soles of our feet —the icy water passing through our toes until our feet are numb. He unpacks his singing bowl—my first time seeing one in person—the wand circulating the perimeter and sending healing vibrations. Always teaching me things—opening my mind and my heart.
I only want to kiss you under the waterfall.
We cross another stream and climb a small hill to get close to the rapid white water, its lush flow, painting the rocky backdrop onyx. I am preparing to capture this moment on our camera phones. I get an epic shot—him beneath the water, wrist slowly curving the singing bowl with its wand. His locks catching the breeze from the force of the water’s spray. A spray that smells like after it rains—after the earth beats the dust from its pores.
This can’t be northeast Pennsylvania. This can’t be weeks after my son’s murder. This can’t be how we will fall in love—the water baptizing us in the possibilities. When we make an anniversary trip a year later with my youngest son in tow, I will stand beneath the falls for the first time, letting the water wash over me like we have a natural understanding. Inviting my baby boy, timid and disinterested, to join me. His big brother would have covered him in courage and guided him to the center.
Bro, c’mon. Quit being scared. Igotchu. Weaintdointhat. Uh-uh.
*
On our way back to the car, we encounter more Black folks. I see you. Their glances signifying relief that they aren’t the only ones that have made the trip. We encourage their exploration; our smiles a testament to the haven we have found.
*
The summer sun rides low behind the clouds as we ride home listening to two decade-old rap music—holding hands, nostalgia warming our palms. We went chasing waterfalls, surrendering to their beauty and perfect power. Grief relinquished its grip, making space for my lover’s embrace.
Falling apart. Falling in place. Falling…
Edges
For you,
a lifetime of pancakes
with the edges just right.
Softness at the center.
Tenderness, when I'm with you.
Cast iron sturdy—
cooking up goodness between us.
When the heat is just right,
the bubbling butter
an invitation for
perfect rounds of batter.
Balance.
Brown on both sides.
Three or four, before you.
Each layer,
a warm shelter for one another.
Covering.
The peak adorned with
a sun-shiny drizzle.
Gratitude in your lit-up eyes.
Now lay me down and
pour sweetness upon me.
Julia Mallory is a poet, children's book author, and screenwriter. She is the mother of three children: Julian (deceased), Jaya, and Kareem. She lives in Central Pennsylvania. Survivor's Guilt is her sixth book.