August 29, 1981

There's a precise moment between before and after, when the world tilts just enough to cast a shadow on the past, and blurs the lens through which you see everything afterwards. We have to start there. That moment for me is when my brother's friend walked into my mom's kitchen and said, "You have to come. It's Steve."

August 29,1981. I was 23, days away from having my first child. Steven was 21, days away from 22, and had graduated that morning with a Bachelor's in Social Work. I was inside helping to get food around for his party. He was outside with friends, hanging out by the newly-dug farm pond. I don't remember what happened after I saw the fear on David's face. I do know I called for help. I remember the faces of the people in the water, coming up for air. I screamed, his name over and over until I was made to stop. I searched the surrounding cornfields for him, willing him to walk out, be anywhere but underneath the still, flat surface of that pond.

Divers came, emergency units. We were asked to wait in the house, all of us, my family, his friends. I watched from a back bedroom window, the divers surface, compare notes, go back to look again. I watched when they finally found him, and pulled his body from the water onto the shore.

They tried forever to bring him back. And then they took out a white sheet, shook it to full size, and covered his body.

Of course the unspoken question is "couldn't he swim?" And the answer is "No, he couldn't." He went to swimming lessons when we were kids, and screamed and begged not to have to go back. One of my dad's friends remembers taking us to a beach when we were very young. Steven stood in water to his knees, sobbing, "I'm going to drown." Do I believe he foresaw his own death? I don't know. His fears obviously lead to it. The pond was new that year, too. We'd only even used it a few times. I'm sure eventually someone would have said "hey, Steve shouldn't be out on the rowboat without a life jacket" but we didn't get that chance.

Later I found out he was on the boat with our brother, Mark. His friends hung out on shore. The boat tipped and Steven panicked. Mark held onto him for as long as he could, and then to save his own life, he had to let go.

One true thing is there is a moment upon wakening when you are conscious but have yet to remember what is missing. And then the pain bludgeons you again. I had barely experienced loss at all. Even losing the pets we had made me cry for days. The first days were annihilating. One minute someone is standing tall beside you, laughing, and you never in a million years would imagine they would ever not be there. And a minute later, they are completely gone, except for their body in a casket and several days to try to say "goodbye."

Six days after he died, I gave birth to my oldest daughter. No one defines it more precisely than Sylvia Plath:
"It is as though my heart put on a face and walked into the world."

I was submerged in love and loss and understanding and confusion. There were times when I could feel my mind slipping sideways. And so I simply locked his death away, pushed it behind a wall and believed I could nail the door shut.