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It’s a beautiful vase of bright colors. With smooth curves and an artistic, poured-on style that makes the paint look like its flowing, it immediately grabs the attention of anyone who spots it on the shelf in my home office.
My son’s ashes are in there.
On Thursday, it will be one year since he left this world. A year that has somehow taken forever, yet still feels like a snap of the fingers. A year of mind-numbing pain and excruciating loss. A year where darkness has indeed felt like an old friend.
My phone will ring at an odd hour and I’ll think to myself, “That’s Ian,” before realizing I will never hear him say, “Hi Pops, what’s up?” again. I have played his voicemails saved on my cell phone over and over, as if magically expecting a different conversation.
The last time I saw Ian, he looked good. Great, even, as he had been lifting weights. His mind was clear, his words optimistic. He was working at a halfway house in Alabama, trying to help other men walk a path that didn’t include alcohol and drugs. He sounded fantastic, quoting effortlessly from both God’s Good Book and the AA Big Book.
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When I hugged him tightly goodbye, I told him I loved him, that I was proud of him, that I couldn’t wait to see what God had in store for him. All of the pain he suffered from years of fighting addiction would finally be put to good use.
Two months later, he was gone. He took one chance too many.
I have so wanted to have one more moment with him, to have another one of our legendary conversations that took hours and spanned everything from good movies and music to political conspiracies and UFOs. My son was my favorite person in the world to talk with, and I miss that like I would miss air.
During the last year, I ran across something Ian posted on Facebook on Feb. 25, 2013. Reading it was a reminder of the daily battles he fought since he was 17. Yet, it also shows that he never lost hope.
“Dear God,
“I know I’m a selfish, arrogant, egotist sometimes and have made a lot of mistakes … I have lied, stolen and hurt others as well as myself, I am making changes, however, and I need your help.
“Help me to not act out of anger when someone else is hurting me. Help me to be a light for my friends and family, as well as my enemies. Help me to stay sober and remember the bad times while looking toward the good ones to come.
“Fill this empty space that used to be a black hole for drugs, alcohol and chaotic relationships to instead be filled with you. Motivate and inspire me to return to my roots of art, music, color and sound. Help me to express my gratitude and communicate your message through creative talents. Give me a positive outlet for my negative energy. Help me to choose LOVE over fear on a daily basis.
“Most of all … help me to be the Ian I am supposed to me.”
The only reason I’ve made it so far is because I know who Ian is, I know where he is and I know, without a doubt, that I will see him again one fine day.
Still, the last 365 days have been the most difficult I have lived through. A few weeks ago, we had to put down Roxy, one of best dogs I’ve ever had the privilege of calling my friend. Last week, my beloved Uncle Chip went to rest in peace, leaving me as the second-oldest person in my family. For someone who still at least thinks young, that’s tough to accept.
However, life is tougher for everybody today. My youngest daughter recently attended the fourth funeral of a high school friend since she graduated 12 years ago; every best friend I had in school is still alive. The world is a dangerous place today. That makes me angry.
It also makes me angry that so many families are losing their youth. It makes me angry that our future is being crushed under the weight of addiction. And it makes me angry that the dealers who created and sold the drug to Ian will likely never face justice for their crimes.
Meanwhile, my son’s remains lie in a vase, waiting for when I finally have the strength to give them back to the earth.
David Brown is publisher of the Cherokee Scout. You can reach him by phone, 828-837-5122; email, dbrown@cherokeescout.com; or on X @daviddBstroh.