January 23, 2024 was 26 minutes old when I sat down to write this post. The newborn day swelled with a wave of anticipation. It always does. It is our daughter’s birthday. Today was the forty-second year.
The time and date screamed at me in the darkness. The silence whispered, “You cannot.”
Yes. I cannot, ever:
send a card or gift
FaceTime and sing “Happy Birthday”
here her laugh
look into her hazel eyes
smell the quiet scent of Bath and Body Works apple products …
Death has now stood between us seventeen years. On her birthday, the ache of grief crashes against my love in slow motion. When I wake the next morning, though it never really goes away, it slides into the past.
That wave is not unnatural nor a sign I am stuck in grief. It is the price of love. I have a choice on special days in my normal without her. Will I walk parallel to grief like someone who walks their dog alongside waves on a beach? Or, will I enter in and ride that particualr wave? What would you choose or do you choose? Some people post the anniversary of their loved one’s birth or death on social media. That is their way of riding the wave.
Coleman, my husband, and I used to go to Hannah’s grave four times a year: Christmas, Easter, her birth-day, and death-day. We would brush leaves off the metal plate, put fresh flowers in the vase, then would settle on the granite bench monogrammed with her name. We would sit in silence, read scripture, sing hymns, reminisce. It was the closest we could be to her body, the last vestige on earth of the daughter we love.
We left it behind in May 2020 when we moved nine and half hours away. I love the rhythm of the new normal that slowly forms. New relationships evolve with people who know Hannah as part of our past unlike our son and his family, who live next door.
Our story with her is integral to our present in what we do now. The boom of the ache echoes in other people’s lives who join GriefShare, a grief group Coleman and I facilitate. The waves beat them up and we are there to facilitate their baby steps into their new normal. My art celebrates the discovery of the unfading beauty of God and hope in him that does not disappoint. Artful GriefCare, the service I provide for women who are family caregivers, , the R.E.A.L grief before loss.
The silence of those four “Hannah” days was deafening for three years after our move. But, not January 23, 2024. Coleman, myself, and our son rode the wave of grief. I wrote this blog post, cried as I read the first draft to my son when he called at 7 am to say “Happy Birthday, Hannah.” Coleman bought a dozen roses on the way home from his morning swim. They were mauve, Hannah’s favorite color.
He hid them behind his back as he entered the studio. Then, with a slight bow and a grand flourish he presented them to me.
“Happy Birthday, Hannah!” His voice broke, his shoulders shook. We held each other and cried.
Our son’s family entered into our day. At 5pm, when January 23, 2024, was seventeen hours old, Coleman and I walked over the bridge to the kids’ house for Taco Tuesday. As we ate, laughed, and chatted. Hannah stories peppered the conversation. We each shared what cake we like on our birthday. Coleman, I , and our son agreed Coleman’s mom always made Hannah German Chocolate for her birthday.
“I did think about making German Chocolate cupcakes today but then…” I shrugged, “I didn’t.”
“Yea, I though about buying one at SAMS. Don’t they make that kind?” asked my son. “I think it does.”
“Next year!” one of the grandchildren announced. The decision was unanimous. It would be fun to use my mother-in-law’s recipe, but, maybe, a new recipe would be more appropriate.
The day closed with Coleman and I playing and reading stories with the two older grandchildren after the baby was in bed. Their parents had gone out for the evening.
The next morning my heart sighed, “Riding the wave yesterday was good. I’m grateful.”