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 forty second birthday.
The date screamed at me in the darkness. The silence whispered, “You cannot.”
Yes. I cannot:
send a card or gift
FaceTime and sing “Happy Birthday”
hear her laugh and laugh with her
look into her hazel eyes
smell the quiet scent of Bath and Body Works apple products …
Death has now stood between us for seventeen years. On her birthday, the ache of grief crashes against my love in slow motion. When I wake the next morning it slides into the past like the murmur of a brook that never goes away.
The wave is not unnatural nor a sign I am stuck in grief. It is the price of love. I have a choice on these days that bookend my time with her. Shall I walk parallel to grief like someone who walks the beach careful not engage with the waves? Or, will I play tag with them? What would you choose? Some people ride the wave by posting the anniversary of their loved one’s birth or death on social media.
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 settle on the granite bench monogrammed with her name. We sat in silence for awhile, read scripture, sang hymns, reminisce... It was the closest we could be to her body, the last vestige 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. But, our new friends never knew Hannah. An uncanny silence fills where she once
Hannah is integral to growing new roots. The boom of our ache melds with others fresh or stuffed grief in GriefShare, a grief group Coleman and I facilitate. The waves beat and swirl them 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, a service I provide for women who are the R.E.A.L grief before loss.
After our move, the silence of those “Hannah” days droned like waves crashing against the shore. This year’s January 23rd, we rode the wave of grief. I wrote this blog post, cried when my son when he called at 7 am to say “Happy Birthday, Hannah.” Coleman bought a dozen mauve roses on the way home from his morning swim. Mauve was 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.
At 5pm we walked over the bridge to the kids’ house for Taco Tuesday. The children’s questions and 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.
“Yea, I thought about buying one at SAMS.” my son said.
“Next year!” one of the grandchildren announced. The decision was unanimous.
The day closed with Coleman and I playing and reading with the children while their parents went on a date.
The next morning my heart sighed, “Such a good ride on the wave yesterday. Next year I’ll make that cake.”