Monday, January 7, 2013
Tomorrow will be the second time I observe, rather than celebrate, the day of my youngest child's birth. For the past week or so, I have occasionally found myself thinking about how old Michael would have been this year. I would consider the number 27, and toss it around in my mind, trying to make some sense of it. Then, while swimming lengths a couple of days ago, I became curious about this line of thinking. How old he would be is no longer relevant, since he is no longer here. So why does my imagination want to play with this notion? Is it perhaps a desire to hold onto what was? My children's ages were always two years apart, and it remained that way for twenty-five years: a very simple pattern: 2, 4, 6 or 11, 13, 15. The last time the numbers fit was two years ago. It is a confusing process trying to adjust to the idea that such a fact can change, and that counting by twos is no longer accurate. My children are now 31, almost 29, and still 25. Both the pattern and I have had to adapt. Happy Birthday son.