Happy (St.) Colin’s Day

At first it was funny: of course Colin would slip off the mortal coil on a holiday known more for drunken reveling than St. Patrick himself, who isn’t even a saint, had nothing to do with snakes, and probably lied about being abducted and imprisoned when he was just avoiding public service (don’t read this Wikipedia entry if you prefer the fanciful version of his story). But it’s true that Colin was a leprechaun—a prankster and funnyman—though he wouldn’t have hoarded his gold. He would have either shared it or invested it in a fantastic project to better the world with free taco trucks or islands floating above the ground to preserve nature.

One Day

I can’t say that I’m grateful for the coincidence, but without it I would not remember the exact day of Colin’s death. Doing so is unimportant to me and I halfway resent having a solid milestone to mark the fullness of feeling that comes when it is distilled into the pinprick of a moment in 365 days long with undulations of nostalgia. With no conscious force of will, it rises up and would be more manageable to distribute over a vague approximation of days sometime in the late teens of March.  

But so be it, and now the assault of the leprechaun traps and glittering shamrocks of the suddenly Irish contrasts sharply against a very different collection of thoughts and memories. They are not all bad, of course. Colin’s life was improbable and outsized, maybe even more so than the most outlandish version of Patrick’s legend and certainly better documented.

A Life Well Lived

The anniversary of someone’s death is best focused on the life lived and I encourage that wholeheartedly. What a life that kid lived, much due to his own ability to look past the challenges and barriers and embrace what he had when he had it. Colin inhabited the moment and it’s easy to look back on the joy he experienced and the satisfaction he got from relationships, companionship, and his unlikely accomplishments.

As a parent, these memories and the knowledge that he was part of a supportive community have insulated me from shredding grief. It is much less of a loss to know that he continues to be held by so many, even in small ways. But, also as a parent, I cannot escape the weight of past decisions that I doggedly question. Even if I avoid thinking about it, self-doubt bubbles up in the mind space I cannot control and the dream world crafts novel horrors that are impossible to slough off in the light of day.

The torturer is my own psyche, breaking free of the constraints of the cognitive strategies I can deploy when I am in full possession of my mind. If that’s even possible in the first place, but at least the parts that are within my conscious control. That hidden devil also likes to populate the spontaneous recollections that pop up through the day with darker moments.

The finest irony of the anniversary of Colin’s death is that, unforgettable as it is, it brings a separate flood of positive memories. Between the swathes of green on social media and in private messages and texts, I encounter Colin’s grinning face and see how many people he touched and how many souls still vibrate with his spirit.

Tapestry of Grief

Nobody has ever asked me what it is like to be a bereaved parent but I couldn’t answer concisely if I tried. We are all different and we are all different on different days. Together, we weave a recognizable tapestry but, more often than not, there is no unity in loss outside of loss itself. Sometimes, the silent need awaits the kindness of others, which is an obtuse way of stating how welcome the messages and pictures are. I say this for myself—today—and for others who may be missing their own leprechaun on another day.