To Those We Have Lost

by Charles C. Cole

At the beginning of these events, my son Chase, a high-end autistic, was ten. My mother, a regular fixture in his life, lived only a few houses away until she lost her battle to Hodgkin’s lymphoma, though I’ll always think it was the radiation treatment that hastened her demise.

My wife and I spent Mom’s last night in her spare room across the hall, when we weren’t sitting beside her, relieved that she was able to die in the familiar comfort of her own bed. We walked into our house in the morning and explained to Chase that Grandma had passed.

“You mean she’s dead? As in forever?” he asked. “So, I won’t bother to invite her to my birthday next month.” It wasn’t as cold-hearted as it sounds. She was his “first” death. We had a neighbor hang out with him at home while we attended her funeral.

Not long later, I was driving Chase home from school. (There were unsupervised bullies on the bus.) Traffic was sluggish along Route 302 due to annual spring maintenance. There was a white, four-foot high crucifix-style monument stuck into the ground at the shoulder of the road, with pots of wilted pansies about. The cross had a name written on the vertical piece and, presumably, a birth and death year across the horizontal piece.

“Why would people bury someone next to the road? That’s rude,” Chase said. “Isn’t that what cemeteries are for?” Keep in mind, Chase had never been to a cemetery.

“It’s not a grave, it’s a memorial,” I explained. “Sometimes, when people die in car accidents, their loved ones choose to remember where they were in their last moments. I guess it’s a way of saying, ‘My mother/dad/friend will not be forgotten.’ Like that.”

“Well, I hope someone waters the flowers,” said Chase. “They look like they’re dying.”

As early summer arrived, I grabbed Chase one Saturday to join me on a trip to Home Depot to buy flowers for the front garden. He’d been on his computer for hours, and my wife was working at her bookstore. He resisted, but I promised to be quick and to stop for ice cream cones on the way back. He’s always been susceptible to bribes, aka friendly persuasion.

We were passing the newly constructed homeless service center in Portland when Chase noticed a light blue corrugated plastic sign with a pedestrian crossing figure attached to a telephone pole. It had a hand-printed name and two dates.

“Do you think someone got hit by a car?” he asked.

“It’s pretty dark here at night, so that’s a strong possibility. I’ve had to hit my brakes coming home in winter when the days are shorter and someone dashes across the road dressed in black.”

“Death sucks,” he said.

I didn’t tell him about the excruciating pain that usually accompanies the event, especially the sudden, surprise version. It was also not the occasion to tell him that death comes for all of us eventually.

Another time, my wife Becca took Chase for her weekly grocery run. I wasn’t invited, I suspected, because it was the day before Father’s Day and they were getting me a treat. I used the time alone to mow the lawn and clear my head.

For years, I’d been working remotely, which helped keep Chase company and out of after-school day care. But now there were rumors that our new CEO wanted everyone back in the office full-time.

When my family returned, I stopped the mower to help carry in the bags of food.

“I’ve got it,” said Becca. “Chase wants to consult with you.”

Chase was sitting in the front passenger seat, his ever-present headset over his ears, likely listening to a video-gamer on Youtube.

I waved. He gave me the index-finger gesture for: Just finishing, then stepped out.

“You okay?” I asked.

“We saw another memorial,” he said. “Mother thinks it was for a pet, because there was no last name, just ‘Shadow’ and the start and end date.”

“That’s why we keep the cats indoors,” I explained.

“Father,” he said — he always calls me “Father” — “I was thinking if you can’t beat them, join them.” I waited for an explanation. “There’s a dead squirrel in the road, right around the corner from the end of our driveway.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Mother bought me some corrugated plastic. If I make up a sign, will you bury the little fella and stick the sign in the ground?”

“Sure,” I said. “What will you use for a name or dates?”

“Just ‘Squirrel’ and today’s date, though Mother thinks he probably got run over a couple of days ago.”

“That’s a lovely gesture.”

“I know. That’s what Mother said.”

Chase spent about an hour with permanent markers, adding flowers. My wife offered to help him spell squirrel, but he told her: “I’ve got this. That’s what the Internet is for.”

The sign lasted through most of the summer before someone pulled it up and tossed it, crumpled, into the woods in front of our house. I “hid” it in the trunk of my car for weeks. Chase never mentioned it.

After a heart-to-heart with the boss, I continued working remotely for years.

Chase finished high school and even managed an associate’s degree in art from a nearby community college. He works weekends and evenings at Walmart, where a cousin is a manager and can keep an eye out for him.

As for death, we’ve haven’t seen much of it the last few years. Our two indoor cats, Patches and Enki, eventually got old. I buried them in the yard. Chase drew cards in memory of them which we still have on the fridge.

My wife and I retired. The house is paid for. I worry about Chase. He’s attending a co-worker’s upcoming wedding, so just maybe he’s branching out at last. Here’s hoping, after we’re gone, life treats him with the same dignity he treated a wild, nameless squirrel.