A Strange Sort of Comfort

Each time I had to check my email today, the first thing it showed me was the reminder that it's your birthday with a little suggestion to send you an e-card. I'm pretty sure I don't have the right e-mail address for where you are now, though I did leave a message on your Gaia profile.

You would have been 26 today. This was the second birthday celebration we've had without you. I dusted off your iPod and attached it to the wall charger (which is the only way it works, now), then plugged it into my little desktop speakers. For the first time, I had your favorite music playing right from your little shiny red device out loud for the world to hear. I made cheese enchiladas again...no sour cream. We had Tabasco, Barq's and re fried beans. This time, we invited friends to join us for your birthday dinner; Kris, his girlfriend Bri and her son Hugh. They brought side dishes and conversation. It was nice to have a little get together for you. Even now as your almost three-month-old niece plays happily on her little floor mat beside me, your songs are still playing and the warmth of it all surrounds me, with the chill of grief nestled somewhere in my center. It's okay. The grief is supposed to be there. It's a part of me now and I'm comfortable with it because it also shows me how wonderful the wonderful things really are.

As I write less and less frequently in this blog, I sometimes worry that I'm running out of things to say because you've moved so far away from us now. There's an odd sort of comfort that comes with grief. I felt it momentarily last week, a week ago today to be precise, when I received news of the death of someone I look up to. I was sad, and that chill in my center was notified, but for a moment on the outside, I was warm. I was at peace. Is it the knowledge that the suffering is over or is it something more selfish? In the months that followed your death, I was in so much pain, but you felt closer. Perhaps that's it. When someone dies, for a little while, there's the feeling that the person you are missing is still there, even if they can't be physically seen or heard. Does time bring distance or just disbelief? Are you any less here than you were during the days just after you died or have I just grown doubtful? I miss feeling certain of your presence. Sometimes, I even miss the pain as it was. It's madness, I know, but it's true. That's not to say that I really WANT to be grieving forever. I don't. That would be counter-productive and silly. Besides, I have my little Violet, now. As I've written before, in many ways, I consider her to be a gift from you. Your leaving has been such an immeasurable loss but the gifts you've left me with are also without measure.

I miss you, George...now and always. Life continues and so do I, knowing that there is no other option. My tears are less frequent, but there will always be moments for you, and your birthday will always be remembered as well as the day you died and the day we placed you in the ground with your teddy bear and bottle of Tabasco. Happy Birthday, baby brother. I love you so very much.