writerly world: news & tidbits

El Dia de los Muertos/Day of the Dead, 2024

In this issue: poems & prayers for our dear nephew who died by suicide

Vermont fall: Amtrak view; lake of sorrows; creek behind bookstore

Kristen and I had just spent five jam-packed days in Manhattan, including a bald eagle sighting during an urban naturalist tour via a Hudson River cruise to the Grand Palisades. We splurged at The Hotel Chelsea where we had cocktails in the Lobby Bar with Katherine Schulten, a Learning Network editor for The New York Times who’s written with me in AWA workshops. A longtime New Yorker, she said: “You two know how to make the most of this town!”

That Monday we boarded Amtrak for a scenic 5-hour ride to southern Vermont where we planned to stay a few days with our friend, Molly Hill. She inherited her mother’s seasonal bookstore—a refurbished barn in Newfane—revisioned as the Wild Book Company. I was excited to explore the shelves and meet local writers.

En route, I texted my nephew in California, inviting him to spend time with us in Tahoe during the winter holidays. Six months ago he’d moved from Maryland to Berkeley where he worked at a boba tea cafe and began classes at the community college. In August we took him out for his 21st birthday. I never got a reply.

The next day we hiked in the woods with Molly and her partner. The four of us stopped for burgers and beers. She was driving us to a lake for another walk when I read a voicemail from my mother’s half-sister, the one who’d shared news of my uncle’s death one month before. Words I never hoped to hear: Urgent. Tragedy. Sorry.

My mother called seconds later, confirming what I dreaded: Chris took his life.

He was the cuddliest kid. Affectionate. Giggly. During his early adolescence he called me his Auntie-mum. He sometimes shared feelings of self-doubt, even turmoil, but he couldn’t ask for help this round. As I wrote during those first hours in shock:

“I can’t fathom this nor anything that comes after. Nothing seems important anymore.”

Before I spent hours sobbing under covers, before we took another train to my paternal aunt and uncle in the Berkshires for my 55th birthday, before we extended our trip by a week to DC to be with my nephew’s parents and two older brothers (in their twenties), before we chose a cemetery plot under a cherry tree and buried his body, I stood by that lake, shaking, while geese honked their mournful cries, and talked to multiple family members on the phone. Shared anguish our only comfort.

Days later Molly gave me this poem that came to her as a song:

Song-poem by Molly Hill, for Nicole and her nephew, 10/15/24

My September Substack mentioned National Suicide Prevention Month in relation to Molly, a memoir about the poet Molly Brodak who shot herself at 39. I mentioned my grandfather’s mother who took her life when he was 16. I didn’t mention my late mother-in-law, Pearl, who would have turned 89 yesterday, orphaned by her parents’ suicides before she was 15. Until now, I only knew this kind of pain peripherally.

First I was haunted by questions, circling like vultures. So many unanswerable questions. One morning I filled three pages of why’s and how’s and what ifs. At the time I didn’t know if my nephew had seen my invitation, or whether it could have made any difference. He’d said he was looking forward to lunch with his grandparents and cousin that week. He was looking forward to Thanksgiving. He was looking forward to a brother’s visit in December. He was looking forward.

The next week I would find out that he’d died on Monday morning. Three hours too late. I still regret that I didn’t reach out sooner, or call more in the past couple months. His last text to me, in response to my encouragement around his stress over school: “Thanks. That helped a lot.” Heart emoji. He sent me a lot of those.

It has taken me nearly three weeks to begin to accept that he’s gone. Each morning is the worst Groundhog Day. I've been writing down images, dialogue, feelings. Spilling out my sadness. Like walking through water. Yesterday was the first day I didn’t cry before noon. Today we’re making an ofrenda in remembrance of loved ones with photos and candles and marigolds for el Dia de los Muertos, Day of the Dead.

Tilden Park labyrinth; watercolor butterflies by Chris

Back in Vermont I found solace from the dappled autumn light and burbling creek behind the house. I managed to take a few short walks. One evening I sat in the Open Sanctuary at Newfane Church: “a space to rest from the many cares that weigh on you throughout the days and weeks … a space to simply give your mind and body a break and connect with the spirit, whatever that may mean to you.”

I wish my nephew could have found respite long enough to hold onto hope and reach beyond despair. I can't help but imagine that he'd regret the permanence of his decision. He survived multiple ACEs (adverse childhood experiences). I know he struggled with low self-worth and depression. Many reached out to him. I wish he'd had more intervention to help him cope with complex trauma and build resiliency.

As one writer friend wrote: “Daily living requires so much courage, fortitude, and tolerance for pain that most people take for granted.”

Many lifelong friends also spoke at his funeral about his fun-loving spirit and humor. His eldest brother, who made all of the arrangements and gave the eulogy, wrote:

“Many of us have come to watch Chris grow up to be an admirable young man. Chris brought so much joy, love and goofiness to those around him.”

Sometime afterward I read a quote by a mother who lost her son to suicide:

“If love alone could have saved him, he would be here now.”

My beloved aunt and uncle were a balm in the Berkshires, where my rabbi uncle led us in a lakeside ceremony. Later, at the funeral service I read Molly’s poem as well as this call-and-response from his prayerbook, We Remember Him:

My 89-year-old Uncle B: Rabbi Emeritus

Suicide no longer holds the stigma it once did. Yet death is still a taboo topic. Often I haven’t known how to reach out to others with such losses, so I haven’t. But every kind text, email, and phone call (or condolence card) has helped soothe my heart.

One sad gift in reaching out and sharing this immeasurable sorrow with others is how many people have responded with similar experiences. A poet in my workshops called this “unrelenting agony of the unimaginable” “a seismic event for those who remain”:

“This grief is very different from other griefs. It is its own tender and gruesome beast.”

Walking to Newfane Village Cemetery in Vermont, the first headstone I saw was for another 21-year-old man, who died in 1860. Below the smudged lamb is this script:

William F Kimball: Died Mar 24, 1860 21 Y’RS & 11 M’S

Behold my friends as you pass by. As you are now, so once was I.
As I am now, so you must be. Prepare for death, and follow me.
What thou art reading on my bones, I’ve often read on other stones.
And others soon shall read of thee, what thou art reading now of me.

A week after my nephew’s body was found, Kristen and I walked along a woodsy path near Albany airport where maple leaves drifted down in the sunlight. In Maryland we hiked around Copper Lake where I took the boys so many times. All these bodies of water he would have loved. I gathered a few leaves to press into my prayerbook.

Maple leaves & heron in flight at Copper Lake in Md

What I would do to gather my nephew into my arms, to hear his voice, to see his sweet smile and gleaming eyes. I texted him a final message he’ll never see. He can’t ever know how much he is missed. May his sensitive soul find peace and release from the burdens he carried in this world. I will forever be his loving auntie.

Christopher Zimmerman, August 19, 2003 – October 14, 2024

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