Every first anniversary without a beloved member of your family is difficult.
More anniversaries: second, third, and thirtieth may be just as difficult. When you lose a child, you don’t “get over it.” You wish to give the people who travel through the journey with you the best, but sometimes you cannot. Yesterday was my husband’s first birthday without Corrie, and today marks nine months since her death.
For your birthday, I wish I could give you
the 4th of July, fried chicken packed away
in the basket, although they say, “You
shouldn’t eat that” these days, and homemade
peach ice cream kind of feeling. Because I recall
last year, the warmer air, and the sunset
with orange, pink, and our daughter’s
favorite, purple. It makes me think of the
tinge of candle light reminiscent of
wedding champagne and fireworks of
the same color bursting in the sky.
The kind of day we like; closer to
April than one at the end of February.
How I wish to know the order of a
fireworks display I’d showcase for you
on your birthday. Maybe those with a
spark of red for the heartbreak of her
loss, but also of the love we’ve shared
together, with her, and our son. Such
colors burst in the sky, and on a night
in the country, there’s no need for a
large bonfire. For life, as we’ve learned,
is the very burst of fireworks striking
the sky like the first feeling of butterflies
when you’re fourteen, fifteen, or sixteen,
and you see that girl or guy. It is a time
before you truly understand life is
unfair, and it’s likely that that girl
or guy will probably leave.
Oh, we smile when we see the final
wave of fireworks, usually the tinge
of champagne, burst open for
New Year’s Day. The moment of
those fireworks is what we wish
to hold on to long after the
smoke disperses from the sky.
How I wish to recreate the feeling of
your birthday last year, even after a
tornado rips up the barn and trees
on our land. We eat at a Mexican
restaurant, and she eats four bites
of her cheese quesadilla before she
says, “I’m full. I need to go to the
bathroom.” She claims it twice
during your birthday dinner,
but really only needs to use it
once. She says, “The sauce was
spicy.” She exchanges the word
spicy for what it actually means
with any part of her body she
claims hurts. When the waiters
bring out a birthday dessert, I
see the biggest smile on your face I
recall seeing in months or years?
Your smile reminds me of the time you
look at me when we first meet, and
say, “Do you know why men date
crazy women?” Another time when
we drive to the mountains, and I
comment on the mountain laurels
in full bloom. You smile reminding
me of the one your mother grows
to the side of the house. The smile,
of when your little girl walks into
a room, stretches across your face.
All this I wish to do for you.
Poem and pictures by Rebecca T. Dickinson. All work copyrighted by R.T. Dickinson, 2020-2021.
Corrie's Season 