To My (Living) Children on their Sister's Fifth Birthday
Dear Francis, Dominic, and Lena,
Today, you are without.
Unfortunately for each of you, this is true of tomorrow and for the remainder of your days. Right now, there should be someone next to you who isn't. Since birth or just after, you have turned to the empty spaces around you where she should be: a sister to tease and adorn and begrudge and protect, but you cannot. I'm so sorry.
Being without comes with its rightful curses. It doesn't feel good to look at your family tree and have to share it with death. This life can be messy and leaky and crude. Some days (most), you will feel okay; others there might be a hole somewhere. And you can't touch it, nor can you articulate it just quite, but you can feel it. You're aware. I want to talk about those days.
In life we're taught to run from pain. When something hurts, we hide or seek distraction. We move until we're far away. This is good advice for many things that hurt, but not for this thing. You aren't in pain today because something was too sharp or hot or oblong. You hurt because you love, because something is working as wholly and as completely as it should. That something is your heart, and you must never run from that.
I want you to sit instead. Or stand, still. On the bad days, embrace every ounce and beat of what you feel, and when this gets overwhelming I don't want you to run, I want you to notice. I want you to say it out loud.
To the girl at the party or the mailman or the horizon. Tell the doctor or the dog or the errant star. Use a pen, use your hands, use your words, let them fall. And if you sound strange that's okay, being normal isn't fun and if your knees buckle, stay down a minute. That's okay too.
But don't run. Invest in all you've been dealt: a sad story to be sure, only it's more than that.
You've known too much, from too young. That babies die, sisters even. That parents and surgeons and prayers do their best, but that's all they have. You've seen that life is unfair and too short and that people can still be hasty, mean even. You know why some linger in cemeteries and cry in the sun. None of this is anything you asked for or deserve, but it's yours.
And I think you'll find it beautiful sometimes, here in the know. I think you'll be more helpful and kind; that you will rally and relate more often and more honestly than most. I think you'll be missing her, always, and that's okay. Because when grounds give, leaves are louder against your shoes. And when hearts roam, she is closer than all we can touch with our hands.
Seek her there, across the stage. Make a wish with her on a fingernail moon. Take her in, just beyond the treeline.
She's with you, I promise.
Love,
Mom
Today, you are without.
Unfortunately for each of you, this is true of tomorrow and for the remainder of your days. Right now, there should be someone next to you who isn't. Since birth or just after, you have turned to the empty spaces around you where she should be: a sister to tease and adorn and begrudge and protect, but you cannot. I'm so sorry.
Being without comes with its rightful curses. It doesn't feel good to look at your family tree and have to share it with death. This life can be messy and leaky and crude. Some days (most), you will feel okay; others there might be a hole somewhere. And you can't touch it, nor can you articulate it just quite, but you can feel it. You're aware. I want to talk about those days.
In life we're taught to run from pain. When something hurts, we hide or seek distraction. We move until we're far away. This is good advice for many things that hurt, but not for this thing. You aren't in pain today because something was too sharp or hot or oblong. You hurt because you love, because something is working as wholly and as completely as it should. That something is your heart, and you must never run from that.
I want you to sit instead. Or stand, still. On the bad days, embrace every ounce and beat of what you feel, and when this gets overwhelming I don't want you to run, I want you to notice. I want you to say it out loud.
To the girl at the party or the mailman or the horizon. Tell the doctor or the dog or the errant star. Use a pen, use your hands, use your words, let them fall. And if you sound strange that's okay, being normal isn't fun and if your knees buckle, stay down a minute. That's okay too.
But don't run. Invest in all you've been dealt: a sad story to be sure, only it's more than that.
You've known too much, from too young. That babies die, sisters even. That parents and surgeons and prayers do their best, but that's all they have. You've seen that life is unfair and too short and that people can still be hasty, mean even. You know why some linger in cemeteries and cry in the sun. None of this is anything you asked for or deserve, but it's yours.
And I think you'll find it beautiful sometimes, here in the know. I think you'll be more helpful and kind; that you will rally and relate more often and more honestly than most. I think you'll be missing her, always, and that's okay. Because when grounds give, leaves are louder against your shoes. And when hearts roam, she is closer than all we can touch with our hands.
Seek her there, across the stage. Make a wish with her on a fingernail moon. Take her in, just beyond the treeline.
She's with you, I promise.
Love,
Mom
I am so moved by the idea that our living children exist "here in the know." They know intimately the truths that so many adults try to run and hide from--of love and loss and grief and pain and helplessness. But also the hope and the joy forged through heartache. This is lovely, and I'm thinking of your February girl.
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