We did this alone that first year, just us and an otter named Bat. The next year, the day Bush started his war, we had a small child with us, who slept through most of it.
Now we have two, who shape the day's events as much as working around our schedules does.
The more you stay the same, the more they seem to change. Girl, put your records on.
Reading the Brick
We have three.
Riverside Cementery
It was a cold day this year. There is a new stone, on the other side of the tree, for children from UH who do not have their own plot. This troubled me a little, because I assume Calvins plot will now not get as much attention from the groundskeepers. He and his compatriots were cremated, and laid in a communal plot, which I guess is now full.
As if to confirm this potential for neglect, a backhoe which had worked on a nearby grave had pressed the stone into the muddy earth. It was partially obstructed, tokens of affection had been scattered. I wasn't prepared to do a proper cleaning, but managed as best I could with water from a sippy cup and the 900 number pages from a copy of Scene. We collected some of the toys and cars that had been tossed aside and put them back where they belonged.
Six sunflowers
Otter family
Tertia & Orson
My folks joined us at the zoo. I had an all-day rehearsal for TEMPEST, and the plan was to have the feast after 8.30 when I got home. By then the kids were quite squirrelly, and so we had dessert with them and put them to bed. Toni and I enjoyed Calvin's birthday dinner on our own for the first time in years.
By then it was very late. To do things right, we'd need to go through his things, listen to his song, but life just got in the way this year. Better to make time when we can really take our time with them.
Blowing out his candles.
3 comments:
but life just got in the way this year
And that is how it should be.
Wishing you and Toni peace, love, and happiness.
This is something I don't think I'll ever be able to manage. Especially the last picture -- the one where the candles are being blown out -- is unbearably sad.
Take care. But it sounds as if you already are.
I remember the first year, there was a cake. And it was served. And there was this awkward silence, probably both thinking the same terrible thing, and then we toasted the boy and ate it.
It wasn't until last year, when Z. was well-versed in birthday ritual, that she asked for candles - and that we sing. It seemed awful. But then, it's a birthday cake. You want to eat the cake? Then sing, dammit, sing.
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