A few weeks ago as made my way past North Park Elementary school, where Dylan went to grade school, I started having stomach cramps. I was four miles into what I hoping would be an 8 plus mile run. I pushed through it, and between mile 5 and 6, I found myself near Rio Norte Junior High school where Dylan went for 7th and 8th grade. Stomach pains, more than likely due to dehydration than what I ate for dinner the night before, were still hindering me. Nonetheless, I kept on and was reminded of that short period of time that is junior high.

The school was big on physical fitness. Dylan had a program he was supposed to follow. It included aerobic and resistance routines. He used my weights and followed the program for most of the time he was supposed to. Dylan and I would do the aerobic portion together. We would ride our bikes for a few miles. Maybe five or six. I am pretty sure that we rode from our house in Valencia to Canyon Country and back once. About 13 miles. And we ran. Just a couple times, and Dylan always complained that his stomach hurt after about half a mile. Running was new to me, but I had lost quite a bit of weight and at one point felt good enough to proclaim that I wanted to be able to run one mile without stopping. Well, I had done that and more when Dylan started his program in the summer. Donna and I were able to convince him to run with us in our first 5k in the fall of 2007. It was the beginning and end of Dylan’s running career.

I’m not really sure how it happened. Sometimes I think it was just may way of dealing with things, but after years of doing a 5k a year, I decided I was going to do a half marathon in the fall of 2014. I thought about Dylan a lot on those training runs. Many of those thoughts and memories I have posted here. In January of this year, I decided I would try it again because this is my tenth year of running a race. In February, I lost my dad.  In fact, two years and one day after Dylan. 

When you run or bike for longer durations, your mind plays a huge role. It can mess you up and tear you down. It can also make you forget that you are even running. It can play tricks on you. My dads death had my mind all over the place.  It has been much more difficult this time. Escape hasn’t been as easy. I have found myself distracted by pains, and then focusing on them. Periodically, there would be moments of pure escape.  Work, long arithmetic problems in my head usually involving money or time.  And once in a while something like the time I ran my first timed race with Dylan in 2007.  Or that time that my dad and I were yelling at each other and my grandpa broke us up by saying, “Now, now boys.  Let’s calm down” in such a gentle way that we could do nothing but concede.  It made me laugh in the middle of a long run. Three generations of Zimmermans standing at the back of an old torn apart VW bug.  Two of them frustrated not necessarily at each other as much as the situation.  That fit of rage has given me quite a chuckle over the years. One of the regrets that I have in my life was not taking Dylan with me one year and going to see my grandfather in Indiana. I wished I had done that. Grandpa would have liked that. The three of us should have gone.  He would liked that even more. I miss each of you, especially you today, Dad.

Happy Birthday, Dad.

I had a dream the first Monday morning after our vacation:

I was walking inside a large grass area enclosed by a stone wall many feet high. I was walking near the wall towards a large black curtain that separated the large area from another similar smaller area. Dylan walked by me and handed a roll of money that I didn’t bother to look at. He said, “They’re small. It is all there.” I wanted to say something to him but I couldn’t remember what in that moment. And he was gone.

I felt a horrible pain in my gut. I continued to walk. Crying but not releasing like I felt I wanted to or needed to. I knew that wasn’t all. I knew there was $27 somewhere. When I got to the smaller grass area, I purposely fell face down into a small patch of soft white coral sand and tried to cry. To release some of the pressure. Dylan didn’t want to go. He kept the $27. He wanted us to continue to have this connection. As I lay face down in my work clothes crying, I wondered how I could bring him back so I could spend more time with him. Realizing I was in my work clothes and had to get to work, I stood up and brushed the sand off me and started to wipe the tears from my face.

Just when I thought that my memories of Dylan had been exhausted something comes along that brings back a memory of him.

This time. An airplane. We are going to go on a big boy vacation as a family this year. It is the first big vacation that we have taken as a family, probably since before our daughter Marisa was born. I would say it was the year that a barely in school aged Dylan dropped his Tamagotchi toy over the edge of the Grand Canyon. It remained within his sites while we were at a particularly nice lookout point. Just teasing him. He didn’t really care about the big hole in the ground like I thought he might, but he was devastated by the loss of his beloved Tamagotchi.

The airplane. Marisa is nearly 17 years old and has not yet been on an airplane. I know that is probably hard to believe, since many of the people where we live have taken their kids nearly around the world it seems. In about a week that will change, when we go on vacation. Well, I think Dylan was probably in the third or fourth grade when he first went on an airplane. The only time, he went on an airplane. Marisa was young. One or two. We decided that we were going have Dylan go on a trip, through the school, to Sacramento and the Gold Country in Northern California under one condition. One of us would need to be a chaperon. I would be a chaperon. Which was really funny. I was surprised by the things I found myself doing for Dylan. I remember registering Dylan for school and seemingly unable to get any answers from anybody. I just kind of bull dosed our way to somebody to find out what the hell we were supposed to be doing to get Dylan registered. I would have never done that kind of thing prior to us having Dylan. Anyway, I had myself so worked up before going on this trip. I was stressing about having to watch a bunch of kids that I didn’t know that I gave myself a nasty migraine headache. The first one I ever had. I thought I was going to throw up.

Of course, it was not that bad, but by the time I got a little more comfortable in the setting, it was time to head back home. I don’t really remember the plane flight. I think I had myself too stressed out. There were a couple highlights though. I remember enjoying some time with Dylan and another boy he was hanging out with at the time, while they panning for gold in the American river. I remember they just kept sloshing everything out of their pans like they were expecting a ping pong ball size nugget to reveal itself. It was pretty funny. I would show them how they should be doing it, and of course they got bored real fast and moved onto throwing rocks in the river. I tried to show them how to skim rocks over the surface of the water. We mostly failed because of the rough surface and the current.

The other highlight was kind of strange, because it seemed like the best time I had with Dylan on the trip. Everybody was sitting at picnic tables under a large fabric tarp working on a craft. This craft, one of several during the trip, involved creating a design in a small sheet of tin using a small hammer and a hole punch. What made it strange is that everybody was there, but Dylan stayed right next to me the whole time and we worked on his craft together. I think he missed his mommy by that point, and I was the substitute. Nonetheless, I took it, because I didn’t really get to spend a lot of time with him and he wasn’t always interested. I think he enjoyed that time with me too, because he later said it was his favorite craft he did.

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.

When Dylan was an elementary age boy, probably between six and ten years old, he played basketball through the YMCA or the parks system. I learned a lot about myself and my own father when I went through that period with Dylan. Dylan had some athletic ability. He wasn’t going to get a free college education playing basketball, but he had some respectable potential. Seeing that Dylan had this potential made it so difficult for me sometimes. I would get so frustrated when it would seem like he wouldn’t listen to simplest of instructions. “Rebound and put the ball right back up.” “Get back!” “Get your hands up!” “Run, run, run!” I lost myself many times. I understood why my own father would do the same kind of things to me when I was a boy. You could see the potential, but not the will. Sometimes, before Dylan had practice, we would shoot some baskets. If I just kept my mouth shut and casually shot some hoops with my son, we seemed to have a good time and he seemed to enjoy it. I just wanted him to succeed and be happy. And I told him as much many times.

Tomorrow would have been Dylan’s 23rd birthday. Many, many times when Dylan was in high school and college I wondered where he would end up. Would he land on his feet? Would he be happy? I had a much different approach with Dylan at this point. Dylan didn’t become a more interested basketball player, because I was constantly giving him my opinion. As young man, a very young man, I knew this period could be pivotal in setting up Dylan’s adult life. And I wanted nothing more than for him than to be happy and interested in life. I always had the perspective that he had to go to college. I told him that I didn’t care if he wanted to be a ditch digger or garbage man after he had a college education. If it made him happy, I was fine with it. After he had a degree. Many times I tried to explain to him how having a college education greatly increased the odds of him having a better quality of life than if he didn’t. I often cited my own situation to illustrate. He understood and I believe he knew that he was going to get his degree. Like myself though, we went by our own calendar. I used to say, I just wanted to run down on the basketball court and put my hands on his shoulders and move him around like a chess piece. I felt very much the same way about Dylan’s education and career direction, but I resisted. Once in a while, we would talk about where he saw himself or what might interest him. It was clear that he was as uncertain as I was at that age. I told him how very lucky I was to stumble into something I really enjoyed. I went with what I was strong in, and always thought that he should do the same. I think he was still trying to figure that out. I know I was at 19 or 20 years of age.

I chose this image, because Donna absolutely loves this image. Not because it is the best photograph of Dylan, but because of what it represents. Happiness. He was with the girl he loved and his family, and it was his 20th birthday. And he was grateful. We were grateful.

While doing some seemingly infinite cleaning up tasks in the garage recently, I came across a small old notebook of mine. I was about to throw it out with some other old documentation. I used to use it take on the job notes. Names, system specs, project specs, phone numbers, etc. In the back, I found some notes from a brainstorming session for a translation SAAS (Software As A Service) idea well before SAAS was the new acronym of the day. Sandwiched in between these, I found some drawings and short sentences that Dylan had scribbled in there at some point. Dylan was probably 8 or 9 years old when he did these.

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It is Christmas 2015, and I dearly wish that Dylan was here with his family.

Dylan loved technology very early in his life. I remember the first time I tried to show him how to use a computer. I thought it was funny to see his little hand working the mouse. The mouse was bigger than his hand. I just thought that was so funny. He seemed to go through the educational games we got for him faster than we could produce them.

I rewarded him one year for doing so well school by telling him he would get a computer, but he would have to build it. I bought the parts and explained each one to him and supervised while he put it together. I might have put the heat sink on the CPU, but that was it. I am pretty sure he learned something from the experience, because he used to talk about the technical details of what he wanted in his next computer. For gaming of course. I always thought that he might go into some kind of technology career, but he seemed disinterested. I suspect that is mostly because he didn’t want to do the same kind of work as his dad.

—

The holidays are upon us and we continue to miss you terribly, Dylan.

All the motivation I needed: The house empty except for me and a couple dogs barking in my ear. The sun was still up, and I thought I would be back before it was gone for the day. Off I set on foot certain that I would be taking a different route than I have been recently. Also, fairly certain that I would be going further than I had in a few months. With Titus Androinicus playing in my ears, I was on my way. It took maybe only 100 steps for me to realize exactly where I was going.

Fifteen minutes later I realized that I was not going to make it to Heritage Park before the sunset, but by that point, I was committed. Maybe I would get there before it was dark.

As I made my way across the park, the moon and nearby street lights began to light my way more than the sun. I walked up to the tree and touched the trunk as I have done many times in the last 20 months. I walked around the tree and looked to west where the sun had been mere minutes before. There was a little light on the horizon. I touched the trunk of the tree again, and thought of the first time I was in this spot at night. It seems like yesterday and a thousand years ago at the same time. As I walked around that tree again, I kept thinking “I want more. I want more time. I just want more.”

—–

The last couple early fall seasons have become a time for me to reflect and remember that day Dylan and I went to Silver Strand beach on a cold September weekday. I recalled that day previously. I just find it comforting to remember such a great day for me and hopefully Dylan too. I have been doing this by heading out to catch some of the decent size fall waves. I haven’t been in the water at Silver Strand since that day.

This year I got lucky a couple times. Warm water and good timing got me out in the water two times. This last time the waves were really good sized. Like that day two years ago, I wanted to play it somewhat safe, but I wanted it to be exciting and a bit challenging. I went to Carpinteria and got myself out in the water before 8am.

As the tide started to head out after 9am, I got some breaks between sets. I thought of Dylan. I talked to Dylan as I floated over the swells. I wondered what he thought of Carpinteria. Then, as I sat out in the water waiting for more excitement to come my way, I looked toward the west end of the beach and smiled. I even let out a bit of an audible laugh. It was okay. Nobody except me, a few nearby seals in the water, a couple seagulls, and numerous anchovies were around to hear.

—–

I remembered the time Dylan pulled some “treasure” from the Carpinteria State Beach waters. I believe it was a Mitchell/Zimmerman camping trip. We were sitting on the beach doing pretty much nothing except wave and people watching when something caught our eye out in the water. Eventually, it was the topic of conversation as more of us noticed it. The sun was hitting something on the west side of the beach. Dylan seemed disinterested, but most of us were postulating our ideas. A balloon? A float? Eventually, the ideas got bigger and bigger. More than likely started by me. Maybe it was worth something. Maybe treasure. Or a weather balloon from U.C.S.B. with a very nice reward for the person that returned it to them. On and on it went. Dylan still seemed disinterested, but did peer down the beach a few times. From there, we began to try to find volunteers to go fish out our treasure. Since Dylan did not seem to care, he quickly became the primary target to persuade. The sun continued to glisten off our treasure. We were certain this object was now our path to riches. We needed to claim it before the glare attracted others to it. Just as the persuasion began to subside, Dylan pops up and says he will go get it. “Really? You will?” “Cool” “Be careful with our treasure.” Off he went. Down the beach, and without a care in the world, into the water and right through the breaking waves and past them. He reached the mother lode before anybody else. Yes!

I can still see his face as he walked back towards us with the treasure in his hands. A smile on his face, slightly shaking his head holding the object about shoulder height. It was priceless. When he brought the balloon or kite (trash) up to our camp, we just laughed and laughed. I think I thanked him for doing his part to keep the beach clean. It made the day.

—–

Making my way back to the car, I thought, “I want more.” I paused in front of a boy sitting at the foot of a sand dune with two particular trees in the background.

I want more.