Yesterday was, is, should be, would be, my second son's birthday. State of being verbs get complicated when they pertain to the dead. I wasn't going to write about it. I was feeling better than expected but I also knew the grief would rise. It has for the last twelve birthdays and I suspect it always will. I hope that by spending a few minutes writing I will restore the balance of grief and joy that is familiar to me.
Matt is, would be, should be, thirty years old now. He died when he was eighteen so he is frozen at that age in my minds eye. I look at my other sons, one older one younger, and try to imagine what Matt would look like at their ages. The faces of Matt's brothers have changed from the faces of boys to the faces of men, stronger, more defined. I suspect the mischievous spark in his eyes would remain. Oh, how I miss him. Oh, how I miss him.
My thoughts were with you yesterday! I am grateful that I am getting to know Matt through the stories and experiences of others. Thank you for this post!
ReplyDeleteJust want you to know I thought of Matt yesterday. His birthday has always been on my calendar. We think about him a lot.
ReplyDeleteMy heart aches for you.
Sorry is all I can still say after all these years.
ReplyDeleteSylvia-On occasion I snoop your blog through Collin's. When I saw this post tonigt, it made me teary eyed for you. I cant imagine that kind of hurt. On a happy note-I dont know if you ever knew this but when I turned 15 Matt gave me 16 (cause they only sold them in packs of 4) Cadbury eggs for my birthday. He remembered those were my favorite. My bday isnt until Juneso e mustve hoarded them!
ReplyDeleteI'm not sure if you're familiar with the Tennyson poem "In Memoriam, A.H.H" but it has a canto where Tennyson talks about facing the February birthday A.H.H. in the years after his death. Your post brought it to my mind. It's a monster length poem so rather than send you looking for it, I'll post it below. I love you.
ReplyDeleteIn Memoriam for A.H.H.
Canto CVII
It is the day when he was born,
A bitter day that early sank
Behind a purple-frosty bank
Of vapour, leaving night forlorn.
The time admits not flowers or leaves
To deck the banquet. Fiercely flies
The blast of North and East, and ice
Makes daggers at the sharpened eaves,
And bristles all the brakes and thorns
To yon hard crescent, as she hangs
Above the wood which grides and clangs
Its leafless ribs and iron horns
Together, in the drifts that pass
To darken on the rolling brine
That breaks the coast. But fetch the wine,
Arrange the board and brim the glass;
Bring in great logs and let them lie,
To make a solid core of heat;
Be cheerful-minded, talk and treat
Of all things even as he were by;
We keep the day. With festal cheer,
With books and music, surely we
Will drink to him, whate’er he be,
And sing the songs he loved to hear.