The heroin addiction that took my son's life - Real Families - Salon.com

The doorbell rings again. With dread (my new companion) I pull myself up from the solitude of my office chair. It's Sept. 16, 2007. Over the eight days since my 21-year-old son Trevor's death, my front door has become a cave entrance for a myriad of callers to my -- to our -- disrupted home. The visits are mostly welcome, as a respite from the constant unfamiliarity of our days.

Of those who come, and frequently, is my dear friend Amalia, who brought over a real coffee pot, one that runs laps around my fancy French press. It can handle the demands of heavy consumption. We drink our coffee in silence in the screened-in porch, freshly painted in deep eggplant and squash hues with overstuffed pillows to soften the heavy wooden furniture. Gauze drapes soften the room, floating slightly with an occasional cool breeze. Coffee with such a friend helps staunch the bleeding of my soul.

Outside is the stone patio, completed only days before Trevor's death -- a poignant stage for his memorial, but, damn it, not what I had in mind when I had the work done. Amalia hands me a smooth, warm stone; I think and feel it is perfect as I hold it in the palm of my hand and then bank it in the pocket of my jeans. She says, "I got this worry-stone from a friend of mine years ago, when I was going through some heavy personal shit, and now I want you to have it." 

God, a gesture so plain gave me power for months to come -- the ordinary becomes extraordinary with the thoughtfulness of a friend. Who would have thought that a rock would lighten my load? Whenever I feel a tidal wave of emotion, or find myself entrapped, uncomfortable or sensing flames of grief, or becoming consumed by memories of Trevor, I slip my hand into my pocket, retrieve the stone, rub my fingers over the rock's warm surface until I find my way to the other side of the moment, like finding a way across an empty space.   

via salon.com