October has a way of changing things

David’s shoes held their place at the top of the basement stairs. They were the first things you’d see as you’d walk through the back kitchen doorway of his mother’s home where he lived. The shoes were a dark tan in color, and the leather was scuffed and creased with wear from the journeys in which they had carried him in his 42nd year of life. And, in a way, David’s shoes would carry his family on a journey of its own when his life ended.

David was a brother to my wife. He was an uncle to my children. Eleven Octobers ago he left this world as a young man, and he a left behind a mother’s heart to question, “Why?” In such times we seek to share the burden of those who are near to us. It was no different for my family. And so began our Sunday visits.

Each Sunday afternoon, my wife and two daughters and I would share our home with David’s mother. We’d drive the short distance to her residence and bring her back to our place for Sunday dinner. We’d find her waiting for our arrival in her kitchen with a freshly baked pie or cake, and with an unspoken sadness. And always, at the top of the basement stairs, we’d find David’s shoes waiting to be claimed once more.

With each Sunday visit my young daughters brought healing consolation to their grandmother, as only grandchildren can do. As time passed the rhythm and comfort of everyday routine returned, and that long ago October slowly faded away. A new October arrived and made its way to another, and my wife and I welcomed a third daughter to our family.

Subtle change

Then, one Sunday afternoon, a change had come. It was subtle in appearance but no less meaningful. The familiar tan shoes, scuffed and creased with wear, and which had shadowed the back kitchen door for nearly two years, had been taken away from that small space at the top of the basement stairs — a space long reserved with a mother’s hope of a son’s return. I looked downward and noticed their absence as my daughters pushed open the back kitchen door to greet their grandmother. I made no remark. I asked no questions. But in that single moment I sensed that David’s mother had made her peace with God.

I turned to see my daughters embrace their grandmother, and I watched as she fussed over them with grateful affection. Sunlight streamed through the kitchen window and stretched its warming rays across the room. I stood silent in the doorway thinking that somewhere in her long journey through loss and despair, David’s mother remembered that life is a gift to be shared with the living, and love is too precious to surrender to yesterdays. And, as my wife placed our newborn child into a grandmother’s open arms, I stepped quietly into the kitchen and softly closed the door behind us.

October comes with starry nights, and bright yellow moons. It brings the bounty of the harvest; rest from summer’s toil; and leaves of red and gold that drift down upon the evening breeze. It brings a time for letting go of what has once been, and a time for considering all that is yet to be.

Nine years ago October brought a mother’s acceptance of a son’s passing, and God’s embrace of a family’s sorrow. It brought recognition that in the darkest journeys of our lives we are not forgotten. In its stillness it brought a blessed peace. And, that October brought a time when David’s shoes could be carefully boxed and placed away.

X David Bobovnyik is an attorney and lifelong resident of the Youngstown area who writes from time to time about family, friends and the changing of life’s seasons.