Fragile Fettuccine Memories

I have to tell you about what happened with Jake a couple weeks ago.

A little background:  my softspoken twelve year son is tenderhearted and holds everything tightly to him.  I watch him work his way through his grief instinctively, and it is rather amazing.  He doesn't seem to doubt himself.  He doesn't let others' ideas of what he should be doing influence him.  He just makes his way through each day the best he can.  He clings to things that comfort him and distracts himself with happy activities far more often than I am able to do.  I think children usually do.

And despite my fears that it will hurt him more in the long run, he seldom talks about Cory.  He usually says simply, "I miss her."  and moves quickly onto another topic.  Or if gently pressed, he will offer, "I miss making brownies with her."  That is all.

So a couple of weeks ago, Jake and I sat down at the too big for just two dining room table.  I had made Fragile Fettuccine.  Trying to engage him in conversation, any conversation, as he is now eerily more quiet than he was before the accident, I quipped, "So tell me, son, are you going to cook this for your kids someday when you're a grownup and remember me?"

He finished his bite, and answered, "Yeah...probably."  And then, "Whenever I eat this, it makes me think of when you used to make it for me and Cory, and we'd sit down to watch American Idol together."

My eyebrows shot up.  What was this?  Did he just say his sister's name on his own?  I thought hard for moment, what was different this time?

I proceeded with this, "Oh, so the taste reminds you of Cory.  Are there any smells that make you think of her?"

He broke into a grin, "Her slobber."

I chuckled at this typical sibling response.    He'd spent enough movies cuddled up on the couch beside her to have been slimed a time or two when she'd nodded off.   Cory would be mortified to hear this, and would probably try to lick his arm just for good measure, as he squealed and tried to wiggle lose from  from her grasp.

"Jacob!"  I exclaimed, laughing, and met his eyes,which were smiling as he warmed to the game.  "Okay, her slobber...How about something you hear?"

Immediately, he shot back, "Home.  That song Home that the guy who won American Idol sung on the finale that time."

I nodded excitedly, "Oh, yes!  I remember that."

He went on, "And remember when Aerosmith came out on the stage and we stood up on the couch and started screaming like crazy!  That was so fun!"

I looked at his little face, which was all at once joyous and full of longing, and knew in that moment, he was completely and fully with his sister.  It was bittersweet.

There hasn't been a stand-on-the-couch-screaming moment since she died.  There will never be another one quite the same.  Things are different now.

What I learned during this dinnertime exchange was that my math and science techie boy is not comfortable sharing his feelings, unless you access a different part of his brain to do it.  Don't ask him how he feels- which is a huge and scary question for many adults, let alone children.

 Instead, maybe ask him something not quite so open-ended- which sounds completely opposite of anything I've ever been taught.  The thing is, it worked.  I think asking him questions related to the five senses that had definitive answers gave him enough emotional distance to be able to answer without the fear of him losing control.

What I know, for sure, is that we were both missing our Cory Girl like crazy as we finished slurping up our pasta, and it had felt good to remember her together.