Happy heavenly birthday to our daughter, Corrie!
This is her third birthday in heaven, and it marks two-and-a-half-years since Corrie earned her wings. Besides already being a difficult time, it also marks half of the life she lived on Earth.
I haven’t written in a while because as I get closer to times of remembrance, such as Corrie’s birthday (today), and Christmas; putting words to page sometimes becomes more emotionally challenging.
Today, as my husband and I prepare for our third annual Coffee and Cake, two of Corrie’s favorite things for breakfast, I think of all the tasks I must accomplish today:
Take her birthday flag and birthday balloons to the cemetery.
Share her birthday poem (below) and pictures.
Finish a table top Christmas tree made from deco mesh and fairytale lights, representing a new stage in my grief journey of creation honoring Corrie’s memory.
With time, it has become harder to write about Corrie as I did in the year following her death. I suppose it is because I’m trying to control all emotions and be a noble participant in this life until I see Corrie again.
I have many reasons to walk forward, as I never, ever say move on as a bereaved parent; with my son, husband, family, students and their activities. Year after year, my students show love and appreciation that bring tears to my eyes honoring my daughter, and helping to remind me of a clear purpose.
Yesterday, some of my students brought me cards, sunflowers, a Starbucks drink, and a framed picture of Corrie. Students had also written me a sweet note with their signatures on them. These students have also worked with me on Corrie’s table top Christmas tree.
We honor Corrie in many ways. My mom is donating to St. Jude’s, and I’m donating new, unwrapped toys to Levine where Corrie was pronounced. There is also a lighting at 8 p.m. this evening to honor bereaved parents and their children in heaven this evening. Corrie also has two online places to honor her memory on: her memorial and Gravefinder.
In honor of our daughter, Corrie, who would’ve been in second grade across the street from me, and 8-years-old today; I wrote a new poem below. In it, I’ve embedded the other three poems written for her birthday or numbers with specific representation of Corrie. (“Six” has been published.)
I also share some pictures from birthdays and days past.
Eight
The rain reminds me of the day
you were born when I
went into labor,
cold and gray, and in the quiet,
before the push and pull;
I thought of beaches.
I thought of you
as music played without a
voice–ethereal and seeking
something beyond this world.
When I think of you on a good day,
I feel the warmth of April afternoons,
mid-day sun in the form of lights
on those nights leading up to
Christmas, and boxes wrapped–
only guessing–
wanting, barely waiting, ready to
rip paper and see what’s inside,
and I remember eight years
ago when you became mine.
I’d give anything to see your head
full of black hair turn auburn again,
and for the mornings when you
lay beside me in bed. I’d say
prayers, as I used to once upon a
time, when you dressed in a
blue Sleeping Beauty dress. The
Disney and online stores always
sold the pink, and I had to search
and find that dress just for you.
When I dream of you on a good night,
I hear your laughter like your
gut nearly bursting, and you
rock back and forth in your
seat. You can’t put food in
your mouth. You cannot speak
because the laughter comes
from somewhere deep.
After you died, words poured onto a
page from my pen. I couldn’t
sleep for what I’d see, and I
typed and typed until all words
came out, but over time, as time
drifts further from the years when
you were mine, it becomes
harder to sometimes write
because it takes me back to what
I lost. It takes me back to part
of you. Some days, I try to
fight back the memories, the
part of myself that died with
you, and your laughter from
ripping through the core of me.
I always know the numbers,
The months,
weeks,
years, and
days:
Six
candles you never got to blow,
and seven minutes in heaven
for which I dream,
and now 8
eight
would be
in second grade at a school
across the street from me.
Would you miss your brother being
at school? Would you still stick up
to the big kids to defend him, or
would you, like I’m learning to, learn
to let him go, learn to let him fall
and fly? Would you still argue with me
about doing your hair, or at the age
of eight, say, “I can do it myself,” just
as you chose your clothes at the age of
five, and would you still like Elsa or
have outgrown such things?
Would you still call me: Mommy, or
have switched to Mom? Would you
still seek out your father when I’d
say no to orange sherbert and zebra
cakes? And, I think you’d be reading
those early chapter books, and still
hide your brother’s treasures in
cracks and nooks. But I know such
questions will remain unanswered.
The rain reminds me of the day
you were born, and today
I must labor
in the cold and gray, and the quiet,
to walk forward in this life
For those who still require
8 more months,
weeks,
days,
or years of me.
Instead of lighting candles of eight,
I’ll light a memorial with those
who’ve lost children all around
the world tonight at 8. We’ll also
drink coffee, and eat our cake.
Happy birthday to our angel, our little girl!
By R.A. Bridges
Corrie's Season 