Project Diary: "was he a dream?"

"Ah, did my son exist? Was he a dream?"

It was a grim evening outside. Slowly, clouds of a coming November storm were occupying the sky over the East Bay. At the West Oakland branch of the Oakland Public Library, on Adeline, across from De Fremery Park, I had come to sit in on Marilyn’s monthly grief support group, which is never grim. I got there a little early, walked around West Oakland a bit. On one side of the street, big vacant lots with red-lettered warning signs about lingering chemicals from whatever industry used to be here, gone. On the other side of the street, tennis players enjoying their final volleys in the falling dusk. That ugly modern library building directly across Adeline from the blue, beautiful old historic house in the park.

The group met in a big brightly lit room just inside the library’s main entrance. Marilyn's husband was there, of course. Lejon was there. He has written thousands of obituaries for the families Marilyn supports in the immediate aftermath of homicides in Oakland. Ariel, passionate in her quest to support victims and survivors of violence, was there to represent the DA's Victim of Crime Office, aka CalVCB.

There for support and to support each other, were mothers who had lost sons, a father who had lost a daughter, a sister who had lost her younger brother. One of those killings had happened just last year, another back in 1994. And of course Marilyn lost Khadafy in 2000. Everyone is at a different place in their grieving today. I feel relief when they smile. Marilyn can make them laugh. Sometimes when she's listening to their stories, you can see in her face a look of immense admiration for the ways in which they move through this life despite the pain they carry. I think then she is seeing them surrounded by an aura of grace.

The horrible holidays are here. Family members talked about how the absence of their loved ones changes things. All the grieving know that. Some of the older family members credited the younger generations of their families, the generations to which their lost children belonged, for bringing joy back to the holidays, for keeping the spirit of the deceased alive and present, in a healing way, or at least it sounded like healing to me. "They talk about him, laugh about him, tell stories I'd never heard."

Marilyn asked the group an interesting question: when had they received a message from their dead loved one, a spiritual message, that he or she was okay, safe and at peace in some beyond, so no to worry. Some had an answer, some searched for one but weren't sure. Some said they haven’t heard such a message. "Nobody talks to me," said one mother with a smile, and everyone laughed.

This morning the rain has come. I got up early. Dork that I am, I am ashamed to say that I spent some time reading. I’m nearing the end of The Iliad again. It's an ancient story. The version I’m reading is probably almost 3,000 years old. This morning I just happened to be reading about the Trojan King, Priam, who is deep -- deep -- in grief over the recent death in battle of his son, Hektor.

Priam asks, “Ah did my son exist? Was he a dream?” But he was not a dream. Nor was his death a dream. The pain is not a dream but very real. I thought of one of the mothers at the support group last night. Her smile. Her kindness. She had lost a daughter, her youngest, and a son, her oldest. She said that for her the holidays are not so bad, but late spring, when comes her son’s birthday, her daughter’s death day, is often a really painful time.