Year 2 somehow seems to have been more difficult. The black valleys of depression this year have been unbearable some days. The blinding red rage has left me directionless for others. Attentions have moved to other heartbreaking stories, and the old ones are left to fade into the past. After the stories have vanished from memories and new ones have taken their place, we are left with the particulars of law interpretation, insurance clauses and financial reports to remind us nearly everyday of this second year of how little our judicial system cares for and protects its innocent individuals. It has made this difficult year even more so. As we are trying our best to collect ourselves and live in this new existence, we are having to deal with the final excruciating details. It leaves a pain that in some kind torturous way I do not want to go away else I risk Dylan escaping from my thoughts too.

I think about Dylan a lot. Once in a while, I will be talking to somebody and a memory will come up in the conversation and disappear again nearly as quickly. But most of the time it is more like a road sign. He is there. I might read that road sign over a thousand times some days.

Red and black emotions and feelings. It is not always so obvious.

Boys in little red uniforms playing baseball at the park. Black.

A young adolescent going through a faze where he decides to give up on taming his think hair. Black.

A goddamn black 1996 Honda Civic. Red.

Other times it is so, so obvious.

Listening to an album, I bought for Dylan in 2008/2009, while driving by the school where my daughter has to withstand the “Every 15 Minutes” event, that doesn’t work, to supposedly prevent kids from drinking/drugging and driving. Red. The band’s name: Driver’s Side Impact. Red. What the hell was I thinking? Red.

A Biography/personality questionaire I am faced with answering for an aging dimentia parent. “Grandchildren:”. Black. What do I put? Red. His name? Black. No, I have to put what happened. They should know. Red. I stare at the form, fighting back the tears, and recalling this exchange only a few weeks prior. “Go on. What are the names of your grandchildren?” “Dylan… Oh Dylan. Dylan. Dylan.” Black. So black.

Sometimes, I think I might read some of what I written here only to feel embarrassed for letting these memories and thoughts out into the world. I want to remember them, but I am not ready to re-visit them now. Maybe I have already said too much.

Year 2. Black valleys and red rage.

“Is a dream a lie if it don’t come true
Or is it something worse …”
Bruce

“feel like i blew my soul out across the interwebs …”
EMA

It is hard to be positive, but sometimes this kind of image helps.