One year ago today began as a normal morning. I had no idea it would be the last time I would see Christopher alive.
I goofed off with my son for a while that morning, while he cleaned up a weight bench and barbell set he wanted to use. We talked a bit about how we would spot each other during bench presses and what kinds of friendly competitions we could set up to encourage each other’s progress.
We were making plans for him to borrow my car later that day to run some errands when his phone rang. I left him to it and went to my office to start work. A few hours and several phone calls later, Christopher asked me if I could drive him to the airport later that evening. There was something he needed to do.
Out of respect for the privacy of Christopher and the people involved, I’m not going into any further detail about the circumstances that called him out of state. He was troubled about leaving, but always put other people first and his mind was made up. I was troubled as well, but I supported his decision to go.
We had a great chat as Michael drove us across the bridge leading to Tampa’s main airport. Christopher apologized profusely for skedaddling on such short notice, but I told him I understood. We pulled into the airport’s parking garage and headed for the elevator, Christopher toting a large duffle bag filled with things he tossed in it at the last minute.
I pulled out my phone and took a picture of us as we waited for the elevator. It would be the last photo I’d ever take of the two of us.
Although Christopher was mere days away from turning 18, I took advantage of his status as a minor to escort him to the gate. He was restless as we waited for the plane so we grabbed something to eat. He wanted to buy a trinket for a girl he’d been talking to (which I feel strangely compelled to say had absolutely nothing to do with where he was going) so we went into a gift shop. I watched while he pored over every kitchy object on the shelves, eventually selecting a small glass bottle filled with sand and tiny seashells and “Tampa” emblazoned across it.
He never had a chance to give it to its intended recipient. Someone handed it back to me at Christopher’s funeral.
We wandered back to the gate and sat down with Michael. Christopher spotted a service member across the aisle and struck up a conversation with him about how he planned to enlist in another month or so. My stomach clenched at the idea, but I’d support that too when the time came.
A bit later, Christopher’s flight was called and I went to stand in line with him, walking next to him until I could go no further. That might make me sound like a neurotic, hovering parent, but please understand. I didn’t stick next to Christopher because I didn’t think he was capable of standing in line by himself. I did it because I knew he was troubled and I wanted to be with him in support for as long as possible. Like I’ve said before, we were very close.
Anyway, we said good bye, hugged, and I told him I loved him. He promised to text me as soon as he landed. Christopher hitched his bag higher on his shoulder, held his boarding pass out to be scanned, and headed down the gangway.
I stood looking at the back of his head. Before he turned the corner, Christopher took one last look back at me and waved. I’ll never forget the expression on his face. I waved back and he disappeared down the ramp. I turned to Michael and immediately started crying because I knew he was struggling with some things and it cut me to the core.
I was quiet as we drove home. When I pulled out my phone to check Christopher’s flight status, I noticed the picture we’d taken at the elevator. The pain, sadness, and frustration was plain as day on his face. Meanwhile, we’d left home so suddenly for the airport that I hadn’t had time to put on makeup. I’d been secretly crying as we drove so my face was blotchy and my eyes were puffy. We made quite a pair.
I couldn’t have known that day was the last time I would ever see Christopher alive. I had no idea what the next couple of weeks would bring and finality with which they would end.
I don’t dwell on how different things might have turned out if his flight had been cancelled or if we’d gotten a flat on the way to the airport. It won’t change anything. Instead, I think about the moments we shared in the car, they time we spent in the gift shop, and the last look I had at my beautiful boy’s face.
The picture we took at the elevators haunts me because the pain is so evident in both of our faces, but for different reasons. I hope beyond hope that Christopher is at peace now. The expression on his face in the last picture or as he looked back over his shoulder on the gangway is not how I choose to remember him, but rather his endless smiles and the cocked eyebrow he pulled when teasing someone.
That’s the face I see every time I look at the clock today and think about what I was doing one year ago. I’m tormented today in particular because I remember that day in exquisite detail. The closer it gets to 7:00 pm, the closer it gets to Christopher boarding the plane. The closer it gets to his birthday soon after. The closer it gets to the last time I heard his voice, his last text, his last breath.
But I’ll get through this day, just as I have the last 365. One hour, sometimes one minute, at a time. For the sake of my older boys, I have no choice.