Today would have been Eric’s 53rd birthday.
My birthday is July 4. His was July 31. For more than two decades, one followed the other until our birthdays seemed to melt together into this thing we simply thought of as July. One birthday always carried the other with it.
This is his seventh birthday since he left us in 2020. Somehow, both of those statements feel impossible. Six years sounds like such a long time until I say it out loud, and then it somehow feels like yesterday all over again.
Today has been filled with a strange mixture of emotions. Joy. Remembrance. Sadness. Gratitude. Emptiness. They all seem to exist together now instead of one replacing the other.
I keep thinking I see little signs from him. Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. I hope I do. I hope he’s spending today with me in whatever way he’s able.
Looking Through His Life
This morning, I had therapy. My therapist asked me to send her some of the pictures I was talking about while we were processing different memories. Going through those photographs did something I didn’t expect. They made me smile and cry. Cry happy tears. There was so much life in those pictures. So much laughter. So much love.
Twenty-three years of building a family, building a home, building a life together. Looking through them reminded me that before there was unimaginable loss, there was unimaginable love.
The Grandson He Never Met
Next week I’ll head to Kentucky to celebrate my grandson’s sixth birthday a little early. Eric never got to meet him. That sentence still hurts to write.
Eric was so excited when we found out there would be another little boy in the family. He talked about becoming a grandfather again with so much joy. I remember how excited Eric was to meet him. To watch him grow alongside his big brother and to love them both the way only Eric could.
When littlest E was younger, he said he knew Poppie. He met him and sees him. Matter-of-factly. Like it wasn’t unusual at all. He would say Poppie came to play with him. Those conversations brought me so much comfort. Whether anyone else understands them the way I do doesn’t really matter. They were meaningful to me and our family, and sometimes that’s enough.
I remember after Eric died, I felt so strongly that he stayed close to us for a while. I felt him. During this time, our oldest grandson would point and talk about Poppie. He made us feel like Eric was around, and it was comforting.
What Time Has Taught Me
I can’t explain those experiences, and honestly, I don’t have to. Some things don’t need to be proven to be deeply comforting.
As I looked through the photographs today, I realized something. Seven birthdays later, grief doesn’t disappear. It changes. In the beginning, I cried because everything had been taken from me. Now I cry because I’m so incredibly grateful that it ever happened at all.
Birthdays were especially difficult in those early years. I wrote about one of them four years ago, when even hearing “happy birthday” could bring up feelings I didn’t know how to handle. [One More Year and Another Birthday.]
I still miss him every single day. I still wish he were here to see the boys growing up. To celebrate birthdays. To grow older with me, just like we promised each other we would. That longing never really leaves. But something else has stayed too.
Love.
Love Doesn’t Leave
Twenty-three years of love doesn’t disappear because one person dies. It lives on in our daughter. In our grandsons. In stories. In old photographs. In the little habits I still catch myself doing because of him. In the way I still carry his last name. In the woman I became because I loved him, and because he loved me.
Looking through those pictures today didn’t make me feel like everything was lost. It reminded me how much was found.
Seven birthdays later, I still carry him with me. Not the way I did in the beginning, when grief was sharp enough to take my breath away. Now I carry him more quietly. In gratitude. In memories. In the family we created together. In the love that still exists, even though it has nowhere physical to go.
Happy birthday, Eric.
Fifty-three would have looked good on you.
I hope, somehow, you know that you’re still celebrated, still remembered, and still loved beyond anything words could ever fully express.
Thanks for reading. –xxooC
Tell Me Something Good