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Losing His Necklace Feels Like Losing My Son All Over Again
I lost my son to suicide. Now I’ve lost the necklace I got to remember him.
After an unseasonably gray start of summer in the Pacific Northwest, a glorious stretch of sunshine and bluebird skies promised blooming wildflowers, pristine mountain lakes, and expansive views: perfect weather for hiking. My dusty, trail-worn, teal-colored summer daypack waited by the garage door, a faithful partner ready for the next outing, no matter how long the hike or how far away the trailhead.
My favorite hike for finding bear grass awaited. High on a mountain, the trail takes the lucky traveler through an expanse of giant stalks filled with dense clusters of tiny white flowers that smells faintly of lilac, and I was eager to explore this year’s blossoms in full display.
Before leaving, I opened one of the pockets to grab my necklace. I’ve worn it almost every day for three years, and it’s a must-have when I’m exploring. I reached in, pulled out a battered Ziploc bag with my son Ben’s dusty green hat, and noticed, with horror, that my necklace wasn’t there.
If you’ve ever lost anything of extreme sentimental value, you’ve probably experienced a similar moment of shocked recognition. Then, your mind raced to the universal question…
