Sep 22, 2011
What do you give a dead child on a birthday, when everything parental inside of you wants to shower that child with sweets, excitement, gifts, delights?
It’s been four years now, and I still have a desire to buy you something, Felicity. (Will that ever go away?)
It’s been four years now, and I wish I could see your eyes light up with excitement over the decorations in the kitchen for your birthday breakfast. (I wish we were busy tonight with last-minute birthday preparations, instead of sitting here writing blog posts.)
It’s been four years now, and I often find myself wishing I knew what you’d like. (Would you be a chocolate cake girl like mama?)
I’ve been working on this scarf for myself for months, Felicity. Months. The hubbub of our lives prevented me from finishing it until this week. So now it’s my birthday present–to you…for me; for you…to me. I don’t know…
But I love it. And I know I’d love you more.
Daddy calls it the “Starry Night” scarf. I like that.
There’s been a lot of dark nights since we lost you, no stars in the sky. Just the black expanse. I remember one night a couple weeks after you died, I was out in the country and we turned the light off to sleep and it was so dark I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face. That was year 1 and year 2 without you. So dark. So paralyzingly dark.
But then, just like a night sky, stars began to appear, little glimmers breaking through the pitch. They’ve lit my way a bit. They’ve taken the edge off of the darkness. They’ve shone some beauty into something so horrific I thought it might swallow me whole (and at times, wanted it to).
So for your birthday I’m gonna wear the Starry Night scarf. It’s from me…about you.
Someday we’ll see the stars together the way they were meant to be seen.