The Oregon Trail
by Suzanne Jubenville
I was 39 years old when my son died. I still have some of his things. His collection of cat statues. His Renaissance Faire beer stein. A green baseball jacket. As the years go by, some of Brian's things fall from me like items shed along the Oregon Trail. Because it is a journey. And you let go bit by bit. And you go on.
In the days following Brian's death, I found a photograph in his room, a snapshot tacked on the wall: he and I, leaning back, arms around each other. He was eleven in the picture. He was seventeen the summer he died. I stood, dazed by grief, in a bedroom cluttered with the essence of my son, and the photo on the wall caught my eye. I removed the tack, and turned it over. My son's handwriting: "Brian and his Best Friend." And on the wall beneath it he had scrawled in pencil, "I love Mom." How are you supposed to breathe?
I'm fifty now. The collection of cat statues is in the closet; I take it out and look at it from time to time. The baseball jacket is still warm and comfy. A husband Brian never met wears Brian's ring as a wedding band. But in my basement is a tan suitcase tied up with clothesline. I never open it. Inside is the T-shirt I had picked up from the floor of his room; he had been wearing it the day before the accident. I slept with that shirt until its exuberant adolescent odor faded into must. I never laundered it. His sneakers. And the scuffed black Doc Martens he'd badgered me to buy. The shape of his foot is still there, in the cracked leather, in the creases.
I think about the pioneers, crossing the prairie. Some of the things that had seemed so essential for the journey became a burden by the time the oxen reached Wyoming. And Oregon was still a long way off. Still, I'm certain that a few china dogs made it across. A few Blue Willow plates. Grandpa's old walking stick. On the prairie, as in life, you have to let go of the things that hold you back. But if there are a few mementos you can't bear to let go of along the way, well, as long as you can carry them, that's okay, too. Brian's shoes. I still have them.
Suzanne Jubenville holds a Ph.D. in musicology, and is a professional singer who has performed and recorded with many well-known early music ensembles. Music is her vocation, but it is only one of the arts she practices. In particular, Suzanne has always made writing an integral part of her pursuits, and has published academic articles, poetry, and essays. She and her sister, writer Gloria Brown, are currently jointly working on a childhood memoir.