I Miss Him

Was I ever that young? Was he ever that small?

This picture was taken on the sun porch of the old stone house in Manhattan, Kansas on February 9, 1975, when Leif was only 12 days old. He was a big baby, but still so small.

I was worn out, but I was happy. I had Peter W., Peter A. (who was six years old) and Leif. Life seemed so complete and so full of the future and hope.

i haven't posted on this blog for a long time, but it's not because I haven't been thinking of Leif, not because I haven't missed him. Thinking of him and missing him are with me every day. Sometimes it's harder than others.

It was a joy to have Peter A. and his family here for a visit, the house full of the seven of us, lots of activity, lots of hugs and love, lots of fun, but it was all so bittersweet. I couldn't help but remember the times Leif had been there with all of us, couldn't help thinking how much he would have enjoyed going go-karting with them, racing his brother around the track. I couldn't help but think about the grandchildren I would never have from him. In an odd sort of way, having them all here made his death even harder, even while their visit kept me busy and distracted, with no time to write.

When they left, I didn't have the heart. I thought, I shouldn't just write something sad; people will think I'm pathological, that I should be over his death by now . . . even though every mother and father I've ever talked to who lost a child said they NEVER get over it. They just learn to keep living. They learn to deal with the sadness when it breaks through. I guess I am pretty much there, but those days are hard.

Tonight I looked at the Picasa albums of all the photos on this blog, over a thousand of them, and then the tears just came, again, like they did when I was talking to Peter A. when he was here, about how hard it is to know that my son was so unhappy he took his own life.

A few days ago, driving home from my mother's house late at night, I found myself asking Leif (expecting no answer) whether it had been hard to make the decision to die, whether it was hard to pull the trigger, whether he had to get really drunk to make himself do it . . . or did he do it because he was drunk and not thinking clearly? What did he think about those last minutes of his life? Did he think of us? Of his lost love? Of all the dreams he had that had turned to dust? Of his pain and sorrow? Or did he just think about how to load the gun and how to hold it so it would do the job completely?

Those are morbid thoughts, but they are the kind of thoughts the mother of a son who shoots himself thinks, though thankfully not all the time!

i also think about how his little baby body felt in my arms, how warm, how sweet he smelled, how his eyes were so alert and searching out everything, especially loving bright colors, how he loved to be held, loved me to sing to him, which I did every night when i put him to bed for at least the first ten years of his life.

i think about how much I miss his conversation, his laugh, his smile, the baby smile and the little boy smile, the teen smile and the rascally young man smile, the grown man smile. I miss his curiosity, his knowledge of technology.

I remember his quirky sense of humor and how he loved "The Mind of Mencia" and George Carlin.

I remember how he loved Orson Scott Card's Ender series.

I remember how he loved beautiful cars all his life.

I remember his beautiful brown eyes.

Soon it will be 29 months since he died. I will never forget, never stop missing him.

Small Accomplishments and Thinking of Leif 23 Months After His Death

I was watching Fabio Zini perform on the guitar, a song he composed for a trio of guitar, sax and piano called "Feel Good," and although the mood of it may have been intended to be happy, it made me sad. It seemed more melancholy than happy to me perhaps because of the soft, rather mournful sax and the gentleness of the guitar and piano.

I wondered why I would feel sad for a moment and then it came to me. I thought about Leif's belief that no one but his parents would care if he died (though there were so many more people who cared about him than he knew) and it made me sad that he felt his life was of so lttle value to the world. His life was of inestimable value to me.

I thought that there are not so many who would care about my death, either. So few people in the world really matter to many others; so few of us have any real impact upon the world. I never expected that I would. As I've written before, I never had big dreams, never wanted or expected fame, never sought popularity or felt I could have it, but I would like to feel that I succeeded in the small goals I had.

But what have I achieved that I did seek, those things that mattered to me? Have I even managed those dreams and goals I set for myself? The ones that ultimately mattered, at least to me?

When I was in high school, I wanted to earn a college scholarship so I could afford to go away to school and I did that. I wanted to graduate Phi Beta Kappa, and I did that. At that age, such things are important, but in the great scheme of things they don't matter much, especially since I never pursued a real carer with my education. And during that time my dreams changed.

I had wanted to be 28 and have a PhD before I got married, but life has a way of changing goals. I met Peter when I was only 17 and a freshman in college, fell in love and married when I was only 18. Although I finished college and went to graduate school, what became most important to me was my marriage and having a family. It came as a surprise to me how badly I wanted children, as I had been focused on education and career.

I did have interesting and rewarding jobs that also fulfilled modest goals, whether working as a librarian or writing books, and I am thankful for those opportunities and the memories I have of those times, but they are not the measure of a life, nor was I well known in either field.

I have been lucky to enjoy an interesting life, living and traveling around the world, certainly rewarding to our whole family and for that we have to thank Peter and his career for making it possible.

I have been blessed with my birth family and a close relationship with my mother, especially, and my sisters, brother, and their families. I treasure my friends, though they are not numerous.

But the greatest meaning and value of my life is my family. I was (and am) so fortunate to have Peter, to have found such a loving and devoted soulmate and friend. I loved being a mother, loved my two sons, and tried my best to raise them well.

That is the real test of my life. Did I succeed? What is the criteria? Their childhood lives? Their adulthood? (How much influence did I have over that?) Is it their material success, their happiness?

If the measure of my success is my family, and if one thinks that the adult lives of one's children are in some way influenced by their childhoods, then I have failed sadly in some ways. Although I think my sons childhoods were good, either I failed I'm some terrible way or I wasn't able to influence their adulthoods in the way I wish I had. What greater failure can mother have than to have her son find life so painful that he takes his own life? I could not keep Leif alive no matter how hard I tried. Was it that I didn't know what I needed to do, or that it couldn't be done? Was it that I didn't provide him with what would have armed him against detachment and depression when he was a child, or that there was nothing I could have done?

I know thar Leif's death is not my "fault," not something I caused, but even so, it will always feel like a great and terrible failure.

I know I cannot measure the value of my life by Leif's death, but what IS the real value? It is still my family, and perhaps my accomplishments, small though they are in the vastness of the world and it's history, are at least meaningful to them. I know Leif knew I loved him, even if my love could not keep him alive. I know Peter Anthony, whose academic and work life have encompassed many milestones, knows I love him and admire his accomplishments, and would and will love him always, no matter what.

I have three beautiful grandchildren I enjoy who like being with me. And most of all I have my soulmate of 45 years whose love makes every day worthwhile.

So, as I thought all this, during the song, "Feel Good," I came around to that feeling after all. My life is meaningless in the great scheme of life, but it is meaningful to me. Ever since Leif died I have been telling myself to keep perspective, not to lose track of all I have in my grief over Leif's loss. I knew I should focus on all the good in my life but I was unable to really do it. My grief was still too strong and fresh until now to feel the appreciation I should.

Maybe it takes two years. Is two years of mourning enough? On March 9th Leif has been dead for 23 months. Thinking of it still makes me inexpressably sad. I still miss him every day. We talk about him every day. I don't think that will ever end, just like the eternal questions about why his life ended so abruptly and violently.

But I think now, for the first time since his death I can truly and deeply feel the overwhelming sense of gratitude for my Peter and my son Peter Anthony, for all of my family, to be thankful that unlike Leif at the end of his life, I have people who need me and a sense of purpose.

And I will be thankful for Leif's life and the purpose it gave me, even though his loss brings so much sadness and sorrow.
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This photo of my two beautiful sons was taken in Thailand in December 1981. They were fascinated by the giant leaves and the cute little puppy they are petting. Leif was a month shy of his seventh birthday and Peter Anthony was just days away from his thirteenth birthday.

Sadness Amidst the Pretty Colored Lights

I'm very sad tonight. I don't know why it hit me so hard all of a sudden. I think it was driving home from my mother's house at night and seeing all the Christmas lights. I started by telling myself that I could pretend that Leif was still alive, that I could send him a text message or an email, post on his Facebook page. I could pretend he was still living in Tampa and he'd be coming for Christmas. The thought made me smile for a moment or two, even though I knew it was foolishness. Then I started thinking about how denial was one of the stages of grief and wondering whether I had hit that one. I decided I hadn't. I haven't been able to deny Leif's death, no matter how much I might wish to. i haven't done any bargaining with God, either. What good would it do? And I haven't been angry. Why? At whom?

No, I'm just sad. I knew it might hit me sometime during this holiday season. I knew I'd find it hard to deal with Leif not being here, especially without the distraction of grandchildren being here, and without seeing Peter A. and Darlene.

I was talking with Peter W. the other day and saying that since Peter A. was born, I don't think there has been a Christmas that we didn't have more family with us, whether my extended family, or Peter's (when we lived in Germany), or at least one of our sons. The only Christmas that Leif missed (until he died) was the year he was in Bosnia, 1999, and Peter A. wasn't with us, either, but we did have a large family gathering around us in Kansas. So, it's just that one year that we missed seeing both of our sons for Christmas, until now. Peter A. and his family were here last year. This will be the second without either of our sons, but it's vastly different. In 1999, we knew that Leif was alive and serving his country in uniform. He could send email, and we knew we'd get to see him again.

This year, there's no hope of seeing him again, no way to fool myself, no way to make Christmas seem right.

Peter put up a beautiful tree on Sunday, and today he put up the outside lights. They are very pretty, and I do love seeing all the lovely little colored and white lights. Christmas should be a time of happiness, love and hope, but it's hard to feel the same way I used to, hard to realize Leif will not be coming.
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This photo of Peter W. and Leif in front of a toy store in Nurnberg, Germany was taken 32 years ago in December 1977. Leif would be three years old in a month. It was during the holiday season of the one year we lived in Nurnberg, and it was so much fun to walk through the walls of the old city into the heart of town, see the Christkindlmarkt (The Christmas Market) near the Frauenkirche (the cathedral) in the square, have a piece of cake at a bakery, and visit the toy stores. The German toy stores were new to the boys then and they were magical. They loved them! There's nothing like children to make Christmas special. They are still so excited about it, so full of wonder.

Thanksgiving 1985 - Honolulu, Hawaii - Leif at age 10, nearly 11

Today is the second Thanksgiving since Leif died, our second one without him. Last year we went to the DC area and spent Thanksgiving surrounded by Lannay's family, Peter A's family and Rick's family, a large group of warm and loving relatives that made the holiday special and took away the sting of our loss, though it was ever on my mind. I didn't think I could bear to face Thanksgiving here without family last year and I am grateful we had the possibility of so many of us being together. I needed that and they were all so good to us.

We stayed with Rick and Mac, had such a good time with them and their daughters, enjoyed Mac's wonderful Thai food. We celebrated Marcus's eighth birthday there, spent time with Peter A. and Darlene, too, briefly, as they were engrossed in packing to move to India. We enjoyed a terrific Thanksgiving dinner with the whole gang at Lannay's and Doug's house, and I was glad we could take my mother with us to be a part of it.

This year is so different. Rick and Mac are in Germany. Peter and Darlene are in India. That kind of gathering may never be possible again, so I continue to be thankful for it, that it could happen when I needed it most.

Now we will just have three of us for Thanksgiving dinner, Peter W., my mother and me. I always conceived of Thanksgiving as a large family gathering, and for nearly all the years of my life, it was, whether my own birth family sharing our bounty with neighbors, or us having Peter W.'s relatives in Germany come to our house for our feast, or at least the four of us when we lived far away in Japan or Hawaii. Sometimes we went to the army mess hall to be with others. Back in Kansas after Peter W. retired from the army, we all went to my mother's house, where we had from 13-16 people gathered to celebrate. And then, when we moved to Florida, it was the four of us, Peter W., me, mom and Leif.

How I looked forward to Leif's arrival, waiting for his car to drive up the driveway, usually announcing itself with loud music or at least the insistent beat of the bass. I waited for that tall, strong guy to come in the door and give me a big bear hug. That will never happen again, and Thanksgiving will always be saddened by knowing that.

I wish we could have Peter A's family with us, but the expectation of their presence hasn't been there ever, as he hasn't come home for Thanksgiving since he left home and except for last year, we weren't able to travel to be where he was on Thanksgiving, either, sometimes because we needed to be home for Oma (Peter W's mother) and not leave her alone on Thanksgiving, sometimes for Leif, sometimes for my mother, or all three. But except when Leif was in the army, he was always with us on Thanksgiving, always until 2008, so a part of what we came to count on was his presence.

Last year I knew I had a lot to be thankful for but it was hard to feel it. Grief was too new and too acute, only seven months after Leif's death. It was one thing to know I had much to be grateful for; it was another thing to feel grateful when my heart was broken and I was sad and missing Leif, just trying to get through the days without ruining them for others.

This year, I am still sad at times. I still cry for him. I still miss him, but this year I can feel thankful and grateful for my wonderful, loving husband, for my son Peter A., for my grandchildren, for my mother, for my home and my country, for all the experiences I've been blessed to have, the material things I am fortunate enough to own. In so many ways, life is good. I am grateful for my family, my brother and sisters and their families, for my friends, for freedom and freedom from want and hunger. I don't ever want to forget all the good in my life and only concentrate on loss and mourning.

So today I will be thankful, even though I may have some tears in my eyes when the table is set for only three, and I will be thankful for Leif, for my brilliant and handsome son, who taught me much, who I loved, who I had for thirty-three years. I will be grateful for those years, even though they were not enough. I will be grateful for his life, even though it ended too soon.

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This photo of our family was taken in our living room in Honolulu, Hawaii on Thanksgiving Day 1985. Peter A. would be 17 in a month and Leif would be 11 in two months.

Our Family the Night of Peter Anthony's Air Force Academy Graduation Ball - Colorado Springs, CO - May 28, 1991

I think this was the last, and perhaps the only, time that our whole family was dressed formally for a big event. Peter Anthony was graduating from the U.S. Air Force Academy and we had flown to Colorado Springs from Puerto Rico to share in that momentous occasion. The night before the ceremony, we were all to attend the Graduation Balls. Peter Anthony was going to the Cadet Ball and we were going to one for parents and family.

Before the dances, we went out to dinner together at Guiseppi's Depot restaurant, which was in an old railroad station which had been converted into a posh restaurant. We had a great dinner and then took these, and many other, photos both inside the restaurant and outside in the dark. My mother was with us, too.

How young we all looked then, 18 years ago. Leif was tall, slim and handsome. Peter A. looked dashing in his blues and Peter W. looked great in his mess dress blues. It's hard to believe that we are the same people as the gray-haired grandparents that now stare out at us from the mirror, but it's even harder to believe that Leif is no longer with us. It still hurts to think that, and I know it always will. One-fourth of our family, one half of our children, never to be with us again.

No matter how many times I go over it all in my mind, I can't truly fathom it, how it came to that, how my son put a bullet in his head.

I am not alone in this. Just this past week we saw the news stories about the famous 32-year-old German soccer player who was depressed and jumped in front of a train to commit suicide. Why does despair grip them so tightly that they can't see a future?

How do we endure the pain they leave behind?

I re-read Peter Anthony's science fiction story about his brother's death and I cried again. There is no way to make his death comprehensible no matter how much I know about depression or the lethal combination of depression, alcohol and guns.

I am so thankful for Peter A. and for our beautiful grandchildren. They are our ties to the future. But I still think of the grandchildren I will never have and that brings tears to my eyes, and I will always think of my son, Leif, and miss him terribly.

Leif With His Hair in One Great Spike - Fort Buchanan, Puerto Rico - Age 16

Speaking of Leif's sense of humor and fun . . .
and a bit of silliness . . .

These photos were taken in March 1991 when we were living at Fort Buchanan, Puerto Rico. Leif was sixteen years old.

I no longer remember what he had in his hair that allowed him to make it stand up like this in a point, but it wasn't something he wore out anywhere. It was just a silly and whimsical thing he did for fun at home and then washed it out. He had fun posing for the photos.

I don't know why he was wearing the ring on the chain around his neck, and I find it rather surprising to see him wearing a cross, as he never professed to be a Christian.

Of course, the sunglasses are his favorite Oakleys.

He always had a sense of mischief and fun and he didn't really want to grow up, if growing up meant he had to behave in a staid and boring way, though he learned to act professional when he needed to and came across as a very calm, clear-minded person in a crisis. Yet, in one way he never really did grow up, and that was being able to control his spending.

I've gone along for several days without being down in the dumps or crying until yesterday. It was one of those unexpected triggers that brought tears welling up in my eyes. Peter W. was reading some of those cute sayings you see on everything from hand towels to magnets in boutique stores and we were getting a laugh out of them. Then he read that whenever a child is born, a grandmother is born, too. I don't know what about that got to me, but even typing it again brings a reaction. Maybe it's that I will never be "born" a grandmother again with Leif's children. Maybe it's just missing Leif. I'm okay. I'm not staying sad or depressed, but the emotions come welling up at unexpected times.

Leif - City of Refuge, Hawaii - July 1980 - Age 5

It still amazes me, and probably will for the rest of my life, how most of the time I can talk about Leif and his life easily and then something unexpected will trigger a bout of sadness and tears. Today, Peter W. had a Transformers movie on television. I was busy and wasn't watching it, but then I heard the words "Optimus Prime." I said, "Leif had an Optimus Prime transformer toy when we were in Japan, and had kept it. It was with all Leif's Japanese toys that he gave to his nephew, Marcus. I had saved them in case Leif had a little boy to give them to someday."

It was that last sentence that brought the sadness and tears. I was never one of those mothers who would pressure her children into having kids so I could have grandchildren. I firmly believe that people should only have children if they really want them, not for someone else. However, until this moment I never realized how much I had, in my heart, wanted those grandchildren, and counted on them. Now I feel the loss of the grandchildren I never had, Leif's children who will never live. I realize all the things I collected or saved for them, the photos, Leif's toys, the things from his childhood, his school records and achievements, the books I bought for them. I even have his baby teeth. Somewhere in my mind I was counting on him having at least one child, even though he had protested nearly all his adult life that he didn't want children. I was preparing for them just as I had with Peter Anthony.

It was hard to imagine Leif as a parent for most of his adult life. Not only were his lifestyle and spending habits unlikely to mesh well with responsible fatherhood, but he hadn't shown a real affinity for kids until the last years of his life, when he clearly enjoyed being with his nieces and nephew and some of his friends' children, and came to love J's little girl when he was with her. It wasn't until he was over 30 when he wistfully said one evening at dinner at our house that he used to think he didn't want children but now he felt he did and might not ever have them. In one of his online dating profiles, he said he was interested in a relationship with a woman young enough to have children, so I know that was something he was looking forward to. I wonder still whether having a child depending upon him might have given him the purpose he so badly needed, and some of the love he sought.

And for my part, today I realized that I had far more invested in the children I hoped he would have than I had ever thought. I realized how sad I am that I will never hold them, play with them, read to them, teach them, take them on trips or to Disney World, all the wonderful things I am fortunate to be able to do with Peter Anthony's beautiful children. I am so grateful for them, but I would so have loved to have a grandchild from Leif, not only for the relationship with me, with us, but someone to carry on Leif's name, to remember him, to value him, to have someone to give all the memories of his life, his special things like his high school class ring, his swords, his bokken, his military uniforms and boots.

He would have had beautiful children, beautiful and brilliant, like he was. They would have enjoyed their cousins.

Who will remember him when I am gone? Half of my children are gone. Half of my grandchildren will never be.

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This photo of Leif was taken at the City of Refuge on the Big Island of Hawaii in July 1980 when Leif was five-and-a-half years old.

All I Really Wanted in This World - Peter W., Peter A. & Leif - Hong Kong - April 1983 - Age 8

I was brought up to be a career woman, an unusual thing in the 1950s and early 1960s. I had planned to have a PhD before I considered marriage. It was a big surprise to me when I fell in love and married at 18 and an even bigger surprise when I found myself desperately wanting to have children. Peter W. was and is my romantic sweetheart. He's my best friend, and he has been a wonderful father. Leif used to say that we (Peter and I) "won the marriage lottery" and he was right.

Peter Anthony is my Christmas baby, born December 25, 1968. He was a bright, fascinating, creatively gifted child, questioning and questing all of his life. He was outgoing, gregarious, like his father, and not intimidated by people at all.

Leif was brilliant, analytical, athletic, tall from the beginning, and inherited my shyness and reticence. Once he knew you, he was a blast, but until then, he would hang back and quietly assess the situation.

I loved being their mother. I loved being Peter's wife, and I still do. They were all I really wanted out of life. As I've written, all the rest was gravy. I had a lot of "gravy," travel, living in interesting places around the world, the chance for meaningful work, the chance to write, friends. I had a close, supportive and loving family.

This blog is about Leif, about his life and our love for him and what his loss means to us. Although it is a good picture of those things, in order to stay focused it leaves out the rest of our lives, and this picture is meant to restore just a little perspective.

Although Leif is gone and I will probably never get over that; although the sadness and grief is there, we also have memories we treasure, of him, of his brother, of our family's past. We are glad he was part of our lives for 33 years. I would never give that up.

And I will also remember and be thankful that I still have Peter W. and Peter Anthony. I still have the future with them. I have three beautiful, intelligent, healthy grandchildren. I still have my loving, supportive family. I am thankful I still have much of what I really wanted in this world. That doesn't take away the hurt of losing Leif, but it does make life worth living. It does make life good. I don't ever want to lose sight of what I have in my sadness over Leif's death.

That is one of the paradoxes of life. We can be happy and sad at virtually the same time.

Leif Ericson & Books for a Grandchild I Will Never Have

My mother's ancestry is Norwegian, and I grew up with a keen appreciation of Norwegian heritage and the saga of Leif Ericson and the discovery of America. In those days, when we were taught in school that Columbus discovered America (with, of course, no regard at all for the many peoples who already lived here and got here from elsewhere!), my friends would not believe me when I insisted that Leif Ericson was the discoverer. Now that is accepted as fact.

Leif was named after that intrepid Norwegian explorer, and the name fit him well. He would have made a fine Viking, a fine ship's captain, a fine explorer, had he been born in another time and place.

When I was a children's librarian, I purchased three books which had a "Leif" as the main character. Two were about Leif Ericson. Leif was already over 18 when I got these picture books and wouldn't have had much interest in them. I bought them for the children I hoped he would have someday. Since most books go out of print so quickly, I couldn't wait until he actually had children, and I didn't doubt that he someday would. I thought it would be both satisfying and fun to read the stories about Leif's namesake to his children and teach them about that part of their heritage.

At that time, I thought that "Leif the Lucky" fit my son. He was tall, slim, handsome smart, funny. He seemed to have so much going for him, to BE lucky, but somehow, the luck did not hold.

The third book, "Master Maid" would have been appropriate in another way. It is a retelling of a Norwegian folk tale in which a prince is able to trick a giant by listening to "Master Maid," who is able to give him the secret advice he needs. In this retelling, Leif has to learn to trust her advice the hard way and finally resolves to marry her and listen to her advice the rest of his life. Leif really needed that, needed a level-headed woman with good life skills and advice. I wish he had found the soulmate he wanted and that she had been a "Master Maid."

In his twenties Leif said he didn't want children. I wondered if he would ever change his mind. I think what did change it was his love for and romance with the young woman who had a daughter. I think he loved her daughter as his own and when he lost them both it was a terrible blow. One evening when he was here for dinner in the fall of 2007, about six months before he died, he made a very wistful comment that he used to think he didn't want children, but now he knew he just didn't find the right woman to have them with. He seemed to think he never would have any, and I could see it made him sad. He got along so well with kids, and really enjoyed his nieces. I'm sorry he never had that chance, to be a father. Maybe it would have given him some purpose in life, someone who needed and depended upon him. Maybe it would have changed him.

But those speculations are useless now.

He would have had beautiful, intelligent children and we would have loved them.

Now, what am I to do with these books, intended for them? The books that tell the saga of the great explorer for whom Leif was named, the book about the "master maid" that Leif needed in his own life. Who will I read them to?

Last Day of the the Last Year of Leif's Life

I didn't post anything yesterday. I couldn't decide how to handle it. I was in the middle of a series of winter snow pictures, but it was a sad day yesterday and I didn't feel like just posting more of them. I also wasn't ready to write about feelings, partly because I didn't know what I really wanted to say, partly because I hesitate to talk about grief again after three weeks, and partly because Peter W. thinks I'm fragile and can't handle it, though I think what I feel is normal and I'm doing well, at least as well as can be expected.

We had just dropped off our Peter Anthony's family at the airport and were alone again for the first time since December 21st. It was so good to have them here. Being busy with a full house and three grandchildren kept us so occupied there was no time to be feel sadness for long. I had some teary times, but I managed to keep them to myself. The kids were wonderful, and they made Christmas a happy time, certainly far, far happier than it would have been if it were just us here remembering the many Christmases when our family was complete.

But once they left, and the house was quiet, just the two of us, the pent up emotions that I had kept at bay came back and I felt very sad that Leif had not been with us, and would not be with us for the holidays ever again, sad that he won't be here to ring in the New Year, sad that there will be no new years for him.

I miss him so! Everywhere I look are reminders of him, things that were his, things he helped us with, things he gave us, photos. I look at them and know there were happy times in his life, at least when he was younger. Where did it all go so wrong? I'm glad I had him 33 years. It was not enough.

Tonight I will go to a New Years Eve party. I will dance, and I will celebrate. I will have a good time, but underneath it, I will be sad and fighting tears. Life will be like that for a long, long time.

Now I close the year of 2008, the saddest year of my life, the last year Leif was alive, and I will try to welcome in the New Year, the first one since 1975 in which Leif will not live, and try to find my way.