Blue

 I don't remember what I wore that day but 

I still see the way he plopped down on the bed

beside me just before he left to run an errand 

on his way to work- his weight, his hair and freckles,

how tall he'd grown in sixteen summers on the earth. 

He took the script I held and tested me to see if

I had learned my lines, such silly lines, a comedy

that opened within weeks. By then I'd come home, after the

applause and bows, the glass of champagne sipped, and sit 

inside the car all by myself to contemplate 

the ins and outs of joining him in heaven even though I knew 

it wasn't yet my time to go. It hurt ... so much ... that it was his.

Twenty years plus four have passed since then. Today the sky

is blue, the air both hot and heavy when it hits my thickened skin,

an accessory, don't you agree? that every grieving parent needs to own.

There was no script for this, no cues or blocking, and the others

in the cast were just as lost as I on where to stand or what to do. 

But. 

Even though the play has lasted twenty years plus four, today ... 

today the sky is blue.

(c) 2024, Ellen Gillette

Adam Gillette was in an accident during the early hours of August 20, 2000 and hospitalized for two days. Declared dead on August 22, Adam was an organ donor, saving the lives of five people and giving sight to two others.

Hospital Bed

Adam Rogers Gillette
b. May 22, 1984
d. August 22, 2000

He filled the bed.

Still just a boy, but already

hinting at the man he'd be

if he had not, instead

watched us crying there

from somewhere overhead

and waved goodbye.

He filled the bed

as he filled his years with ball games

of all kinds and cartwheels,

kindness, laughter, loyalty

to family, team and God,

who gifted him without revealing

it was only for awhile.

He filled the bed.

He filled his time on earth,

learning more and packing more into

his sixteen times around the sun 

than if he'd lived far longer.

He filled our hearts.

He always will.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2022

On What Might Be

Adam Rogers Gillette --
 born May 22, 1984
died August 22, 2000 --
ever loved and missed.

I might be working on the menu,
calling him to ask what his request was
for a birthday feast, his 35th, a special celebration,
and all day I'd think of how it was
that afternoon I fell in love, the comments
I remember made by friends and family
who joined us for the moment
he would make his entrance.
"If the baby's just another girl," his brother
said, "I'll give her to the neighbor."
Their sisters played outside and
I could hear them through the open window
in our bedroom as the pains got harder,
faster, little time to rest between them, but I tried.
Thirty-five years later I'd be making sure
his brother wasn't working or that his sister out
in Texas could call on Face Time at a certain time to
join the "Happy Birthday" singing with the rest of us.
His other sister, I might ask to make the cake,
or help me get the house as sparkling clean as
you'd expect when welcoming someone you love.
At 35, perhaps he'd have a wife and children,
little freckled versions of that handsome face
and auburn hair. Perhaps he'd bring a story of his day
at work, or something new on the horizon, but
the conversation wouldn't really matter as we basked
together in the glow of laughter, of shared memories,
and knowing nothing of the heartache that we have instead.
This birthday and the eighteen other ones we've spent
without him have in common so much joy
there are no words to accurately describe it,
and as well, the sense of such deep loss that if it
was a painting, it would be in shades of grey and black
and if it was a poem, it might be something just like this.

Meltdown 2018

I didn't have the meltdown as I stood there at his grave,

my shadow falling on the marker with his name

much like my shadow must have fallen

through an open doorway countless nights

when some slight noise alerted me to check the crib,

or later, just to see the childrens' shapes in bed and know

that they were safe. 

The tears did not appear beneath the wind chime 

that I couldn't reach to (hopefully) repair at home.

The tubes were guarded by a frog, some wasps, and as I

batted them away, a groundsman came to see what was

the matter. We worked together, Juan and I, and

got it down for me to take, but I could tell that he was

clearly moved that he could help a mother

at her baby's grave, and on this special day as well.

We both agreed that I would see him once again,

but longing for that far-off day (or not) did not precede

the so-familiar ache that warns my surface will be breached,

the pain about to make its way 

into the light.

At Daddy's place, I listened as they answered crossword questions,

knowing I could tell him what today was, knowing if I did that

likely in a minute, he would slip back into the  fog

where he resides, where loved ones aren't in sight

but close, and coming back, perhaps, at any time.

But as I left him, walking to the car and driving off,

a woman called who needed me to scan some documents.

My signature last week went through in portrait and she

needed landscape for the files and with so many clients 

in her care she really can't be bothered. Would I email right away 

so they can process the insurance?

That's when I lost it. 

I could hold it all together, seamlessly transitioning

from task to task, from exercise to kitchen and from getting

dressed to errands, all without a sense of stress,  until 

she called and one more thing was asked of me.

Poor lady. I could tell that she felt terrible.

But not, I think, as terrible as me. 

You see, that's what a meltdown does. 

You know they'll come, they just don't come on cue. You 

might be talking to someone about a birthday, say the words sixteen 

or son or accident or stand in line for deli meat, or see 

that one of his old friends is getting married 

and you're happy, really happy,

but you're also not. 

For just a minute, meltdowns let you wallow in the loss, 

reminding you that grief is never done, that it's

a process, and a fire that may cool down at times to

ashes and to embers, but also where the breath of God 

may blow it into flames at any time.

Reminding you that it's okay.

Make no apology for feeling.

What you feel is really not the loss at all:

It's love.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2018

Worn Thin

In 16 years, we fell in love
with all he had to offer:
temper, grin, abilities,
angel kisses sprinkled on his face.
Super Adam's hero stance,
his tenderness with Grandma Polly
and the little kids who showed
up at the door to see if he, a teen,
was home and willing.
The way he'd take on older guys
when he was just a little one himself
because he knew that they could teach him
how to be a better player,
one day... be a better man.

If only he had had the chance.

A second 16 years have passed, today.
The pillow that his sister cherished
lost his scent so long ago,
his soccer shirts now fit
the namesake nephew that
he never met.
The cut-offs I still wear
from time to time
have holes, the denim worn as thin
as all our understanding
of the reasoning behind it all.

We trust, but still
we miss
and grieve
and love.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

Shadow

Etched upon cold granite
much deeper than the words and dates
her shadow shows an odd reality
but in reverse. It is the light
behind him which both burns and blinds 
and so he blocks it, shadows her 
from all-consuming pain
and warms, instead, her heart.


(c)Ellen Gillette, 2016

They Miss Us, Too

They miss us, too, the ones who've gone before us,

crossed the bar or bought the farm,

ascended into heaven, kicked the bucket, in repose,

asleep in Christ, to glory graduated, gone to be with God

and all his angels, all those scrubbed and sweeter, silly, 

really, ways of saying that they died. They're gone. 

Not lost, perhaps, though that's another thing we say 

until corrected by a child of three. "We know," she frowned, 

"that he's in heaven, so he can't be lost." And she was right.

It's I who's lost, still now and then, so hungry for his voice

or laugh, I want to shake my first at God, demanding

that he tell me why he took my son.

I ask and ask, but clouds have never parted, nor an angel tap

me on the shoulder, showing up at last with answers,

or excuses. Platitudes would never touch such perfect lips,

apologies (though wanted) not in keeping with the

sovereignty I cling to desperately, reminded that God's ways

are always, always best. They have to be. They must.

"I miss you so," I breathed today, surprised - though why,

I couldn't say - to hear so quickly in my heart "I miss you too."

It struck me. Miss me? In the midst of holiness,

in Paradise, eternal joy and health and bliss? "Not sadly,"

he explained,"because the joy leaves little room

for tears. More like the way you miss the green of spring 

when winter takes the leaves. It's natural, you know it has

to be, but still you miss it. Even knowing that the

green will come again, you miss the fact it hasn't come

quite yet." And that is how I know they miss us, too,

our voices and our laughter, miss the times

of fun on earth, because...for now...those memories 

are what they talk about, when worship takes a rest,

the other duties, play times, all the things that

perfect people might enjoy. Not being perfect,

I can only speculate, but this I know:

Their bodies died; we miss those bodies still.

Their love did not, nor did our own. And never will.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

Adam's Orchard

Ten trees in Israel,
an orchard thriving
in dark soil enriched by
blood and tears, the roots
entwining underground
with those of others planted
to remember, honor, grieve
the children of the Holocaust.
The ten are there for them,
of course, but even more,
for Adam. In Israel, his
trees do what he couldn't
do himself: sink roots deep
enough that heaven couldn't
pull him up so easily, to
grow from sapling to adult.
His trees beneath the
desert sun have had the time
he was denied, to grow up
strong and tall, a haven
for the birds and bugs,
providing shade for
someone who is weary,
there to rest. And maybe
tired strangers take the time
to read his name upon a little
plaque and pause to give
a blessing, thanking God
for someone who was loved
and is and is to come.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

The Jewish National Fund plants trees in Israel for soil conservation, but also as a way to honor loved ones. It's a fun way to celebrate births and marriages, a meaningful way to honor those who have passed away. See more at www.jnf.org.

The Eve of What Would be His 30th

Adam Rogers Gillette, born at home on
05/22/84, weighing in at
over 10 pounds. He died 16 years
and three months later,
and will never be forgotten.

Thirty years ago today, I don't remember what
I did or what I said or where I went. Waddling
around about to pop with pregnancy, three
little ones already, the others born in different
towns, but with a doctor and a hospital and
all that goes with that. This one, no. In so
very many ways, this one would be unique.

Thirty years ago tomorrow, holding him, the
only baby born at home, I fell in love and never
got around to falling out, not when he'd make me
cry or need a spanking, when I listened as
he laughed and played outside or seeing him
with family, friends, or teams. Not looking at
his long, still form there in the hospital, before
he left me one last time.

Thirty years ago today, would I have traded in
the sixteen years ahead, to save me , save us all,
from such excruciating loss, the ache that
rests there just beneath the surface of my skin?
Those sixteen years were precious, friend,
and worth the pain, just like the pain in birth
is worth that moment when you hold your
child the first time, wet and squalling, and
you count the toes and fingers.  But you never know,
not really, what the future holds.

The only truth, the only absolute you know is that
 at the moment, you're in love and hope you never
get around to falling out.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Last Day

Aug. 19, 2000 fell on a
Saturday. Our son Adam was
in an accident early in the morning,
coming home from work,
on Aug. 20. He died Aug. 22.

I wasn't going to wallow this week,
didn't plan to focus on the feelings
of deep grief or loss or missing
him so much. But in the night I saw
the date there on the phone,
searched for a calendar
online to verify that yes, it was today.
A happy day, before the accident,
before machines connected silent
boy to something only vaguely
reminiscent of his life. Before all
that, there was this day. The last one.
But I didn't know it then.




(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Significant Loss

They say that any Significant Loss
changes you.
For the rest of your life
you figure out who you are Now.
Twelves years later,
the anniversary of the funeral,
I'd do things differently.
The service, for one thing. 
The man who read my words would
play no part at all.  And
I'd stand my ground beside
the final resting place - fancy word
for hole - until the last bit of dirt
had settled. Men in suits with fancy cars
would not coerce me into leaving 
one second before I chose. The people
eating casseroles waiting for The Family
could wait. Adam was there. 
His body, anyway.
I loved it, too.
The woman who pulled me aside,
hand warm on my icy arm, said
she'd always Be There for me.
I'd stop the lie before it could escape
her lips. "Live your life," I'd say. 
"Hug your kids. Remember us in prayer, 
if we come to mind, but make no promises
you will not keep. Make no
promises at all, in fact. You don't
know what tomorrow brings. 
You don't know how you will change."
Or maybe I'd let her talk, after all.
Not one word in twelve years,
but surely she meant it at the time.
That should count for something.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

So much could be said about the day of Adam's funeral. Too much for one poem, or a year of poems. I settled this week into a holding pattern, like a storm that moves in and then drenches the ground for days. Eventually it stops, things dry, the sun returns. 

Visitation

When we told the funeral home how many hours to set
for the visitation, he said "That will be brutal." He knew
it would take its toll, but we knew
to expect a crowd.
Paying respects, saying goodbye.
Flowers, so many flowers. It would be months
before the smell didn't usher in a meltdown.
I'd never liked open caskets but relented.
Any chance to see that face, as long as possible.
T-shirt and shorts, cap turned around
the way he liked to wear it. They had to trim the bill
so it laid right. Barefoot. Didn't own a suit,
or live long enough to rent one, even, for prom.
Tongue ring out of sight but still intact
through accident, surgeries, this final
affront. The smile wasn't right,
but there was no mistaking the shell for the boy
we missed. Miss.
Teenage girls in short skirts, unnoticed for once
by boys bravely trying to hold it together.
They brought things to bury with their fallen friend,
treasures a sign of the treasure he was:
notes, a ring. His All-Star pitcher's dad brought
a game ball to tuck beside him.
"Chris couldn't come," he whispered,
tears streaming. "He just couldn't."
In a few years, Chris would join his catcher,
and their coach.
Our turn to visit grieving parents,
tell them it won't get better.
But we get better at it.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Aftermath

Strange days between death and burial. 
Too much time.
Too much space in the room.
At the funeral home, David's former classmate will make 
The Arrangements So much sadness in that little phrase.
Coffin-shopping, absurd! Moody (to say the least) 
I know which one we'll pick, without even looking, 
the cheapest one they have.
No regrets or guilt, nothing to prove. Still, 
I'm pleased when I see it. Simple pewter, it suits him.
(As if a metal box can suit.) 
Tiny plot of ground to buy next. David's laid off, real estate's high,
even here. Location is everything. 
Youngest brother will take care of it; he's like that. 
(Years ago, kids small, David's chest hurt, the ambulance came.
An infection, but a nasty one. People called:
"Let us know if you need anything." 
Who has time to make a list with toddlers underfoot,
worrying I'd be a young widow, like someone once said?
Brother-in-law came, announced he was mowing the yard.
He's like that. Still.)
We return to our house with too much space
to find mountains of food, brought not
so that I don't have to cook, but so that we'll remember to eat. 
Smells and tastes comfort, but it really is the thought
that counts. 
Sleep fails. I get up in the dark,
cleaning house with a vengeance, 
write words for someone else to say two day's hence. 
The weather man predicts a storm could interrupt
our carefully constructed Arrangements but 
I know it won't. I'm sure of it.
God took our son. 
He owes us that much.




(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012.

Secret Kiss

Somewhere else, happy families are getting the word about successful surgeries.
Arnold and Charles will never need dialysis again. The machine keeping Chuck alive is gone;
Adam's perfect heart, securely installed. A lung means Sharon can function as a mom again, 
Eleanor's new liver means she'll see her family grow and lose her precious grandson, 
and feel some of our present pain. Darrell and Frances will see again.
The miracle so many people prayed for, answered seven-fold. Were they not specific?
Did they forget to say a certain word? But no. It doesn't work that way.

He fills up the gurney. When did he get so tall? As handsome in death as - no.
His grin made the difference, tying sparkle of eye and freckle of cheek
into one wonderful event. The next few days will be a blur - coffin to pick out,
funeral to plan, final resting place to choose beneath an oak tree on which a friend of his will
carve A.G. RIP. People we don't even know will leave things, trinkets and letters, tangible
proof they remember, sacred offerings that will fade in twelve years, be blown away, 
some of them. We'll hang a windchime, accompaniment for tears. 

But first, longest night over, we stretch awake on waiting room chairs pushed together.
Follow someone down a hall. There's just three of us in the room with him. Not him. 
The beautiful thing that contained his contagious spirit. Absent spare parts no longer needed. 
Most people just go home, they told us, but we needed this. Parents, little sister.
One last chance to see him, machines gone. deceptive rise and fall of chest silent. Just Adam. 
See his shell and say goodbye. Kiss to forehead, forever-closed eyelids, nose, cheeks, chin, lips. 
Our secret kiss since he was a baby. Last child. My baby.  He will always be that.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Last Day

A brain can only take so much, and Adam's had not coped well 
with the trauma. Things were done, things better left unsaid.
The miracle must be now, if there was to be one. 
We whispered in his ear sweet words, told him to come back, wake up. 
If he could. If he wanted to.

Cords and cables detached, lifelines loosened.

We held our breath, waiting for his to begin.
Our hearts stopped, hoping his would beat, but no.
They did the test twice, just to make sure.
Another one, down the hall, to check for brain activity, even a glimmer. Nothing.
People trickled back and forth to say goodbye, left. We didn't.
You could see it on their faces. They'd been so sure, some of them,
that Adam would leave the hospital, that God would hear.
When the miracle came, it was packaged differently, 
addressed to someone else.
His body wasn't done quite yet, you see. 
Papers were signed. Phone calls made.
Cords and cables hooked back up. 
Chest rose and fell again, as if alive.
Heartbeat's solemn dance across the screen 
but I was there, I could see the change. System down. Nobody home.
Busy people collected measurements and readings, 
connected with hospitals across the state.  
Time for different doctors. Helicopters came and went, 
precious cargo in Igloo coolers. My precious, now theirs.
Since childhood, his fireman's dream of saving lives,
finally came true.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Waiting Haiku

Long bedside vigil. 
Monitor beeps, machine breathes. 
Is he even there?










(c)Ellen Gillette, 2012

Twelve years ago, we still hoped for a miracle, a healing or resurrection, whatever was needed to restore Adam to us. For a long time after, I had a hard time going to the hospital for any reason, hearing those sounds. It would all come back, like a flood.

Ford Explorer

This book deals with the Firestone tire fiasco with Ford,
but many Explorer accidents were due more to its
pre-2002 unsafe design.

Everyone has a fantasy.
Mine is winning a brand new Explorer,
shining, beautiful, gleaming in the sunlight,
and beating it beyond recognition
with a sledgehammer. Someone would
post it on YouTube and I could tell the world
in one fell swoop what I think of Ford.

I dream of being rich enough to
to buy up all the old ones, before 2002
at least, every single one an accident
waiting to happen. My price would be
fair, more than, so no one 
would turn me down.

Design flaws abound.
Ford knew it, knows it still.
"Acceptable collateral damage."
How do they sleep at night?

Changes made,
too late to save my son's life.
Many lives.
Profit vs. people. 
They've never come clean,
not even after the crashes started. 
Winning a few lawsuits hardened their hearts. 
My heart is hard too.

Cold day in hell before I drive one. I'd rather walk. 
If they'd just say they fucked up,
that they're sorry. Something.

I should have seen the research, asked more questions.
Should've made him wait, not made it happen.
Dream car, he'd pay me back
a little each month. "Should'ves"  crush
like the hood of an Explorer rolling over
and over in the wee hours of the morning.

Official story: driver lost control. Vehicle rolled.
Driver ejected, suffered head trauma. 
Not speeding, not drinking, bent down
to scratch his leg or change a CD,
ill-fated design kicking in with a vengeance.
Where is mine? I sent Ford his photo,
no response to that stellar smile. 
Maybe the CEO tossed it into a drawer
with the rest, stuffed full of fallen Fords,
a list of outraged mothers and fathers,
husbands and wives. They'll be wary
of them if they're smart.

I like to think he died, and then the accident,
God calling him to heaven. The Explorer,
driverless, out of control, ejecting his already
lifeless body for us to fret over
for days, while he partied in eternity.
No panic, no impact save that on our lives.
Much more preferable than the alternative: 
I bought the car that caused his death.
My signature sealed his fate.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Yes, I know that God's ways are higher than ours and that he can do whatever the hell he wants to do without having our permission or approval. Ford couldn't do anything God didn't allow. He either allowed it or caused it. He certainly could have prevented it at many steps along the way. Blah, blah, blah. Don't get your knickers in a twist. I am allowed to vent and rage and cry and accuse and tell God I hate him, as I did one day at Adam's grave. Immediately I heard that still, small voice I know and trust despite everything: "Yes, but you love me too." God can handle my anger and understands my grief. If you can't, that's okay. Just keep it to yourself, please. I can't reach Ford, but I might just reach you!

The Week Begins

Adam Rogers Gillette
born: 5/22/1984
died: 8/22/2000
remembered with love: always

Seven days in a week, fifty-two weeks in a year.
Just one week, though, I dread,
its dates, events so entwined with my thoughts 
and beating of my heart, that nothing, no one can
pry me loose. Not that I want to be free.
I need to feel this week, breathe it in,
roll around in it until the smell is mashed into every pore, 
because it's not the stench of death that reeks this week 
and every week but the fragrance of his life, so sweet.
This week each year the loss is harder to keep at arm's length,
harder to let it rest just under the surface of my skin.
The goneness hovers, a grey, pulsating cloud building up
slowly until its weight of tears have no more room.
This week, the forecast's always different. This day. 
The last day we saw him alive. It visits annually,
taking all the air out of the room. It struts 
the way he strutted smiling into my room that day,
found me on the bed rehearsing for a silly part in a silly play,
plopped down beside me, took the book, fed me cues.
He left early for work. An errand.
If I hadn't sent him on the errand, I would've had an hour more,
maybe. He left the house and never came home again.
Worked the  job he loved, took a guy home to change,
dropped him somewhere else, started the drive home.
Almost made it. But that particular sorrow follows today's.
Today's is enough: twelve years ago,
twelve years ago exactly, when I hugged him goodbye
when I hugged him goodbye, I could have hugged him longer.
I could have heard him laugh 
one 
more 
time.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Yes, it will be that kind of week. The real week, in 2000, I was surprised  to see the sun shining, or people smiling. It felt like the universe should stand still to mark Adam's passing, and maybe it did. Maybe we were just too sad to notice. One thing is certain, however: if it paused, it was only for a breath, followed by a celebration our eyes haven't been trained to see, one our ears can hear only faintly and at special times. Life does go on, and in the last two years...yep, not until then...a seed of pure and lasting joy that God promised to plant when Adam died, has finally taken root, gotten enough sun and water, and is growing, growing, growing.