Still 25

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. 

Parallel Celebrations

Vivid imagination or a glimpse into the other?  Rather than focusing on loved ones not being here to celebrate with us, turning it around. Broadening the perspective.  Picturing their spirits having an amazing time of it where they are.  Seeing the possibility of parallel celebrations. Their experience filled with such depth and beauty.  They occasionally pausing to look over at us with loving hearts.  Wishing we could be there with them to feel that magnificence.  Reminding themselves that for now, this is how it must be.  That we all take turns moving back and forth between these versions.   Taking great care not to diminish the joyfulness of their festivities.  Understanding how disrespectful that would be.