in three days
And one night, now the nights are short,
Then just two hours, and that is morn.
May 7th will mark Ian's birthday. Unlike previous years when I have been a little more apt to allow my emotions to surface, I've been studiously avoiding thinking about this marker of our loss. I've said to a few folks that I think I'm being avoidant because it's just too big for me to look at directly right now. I have other things going on in my personal life and I want to be able to hold myself together enough to function for the next few weeks until I get home to the 'banks. And you know, I really want to face this in a way that feels like it does him honor. I want to spend some time just missing my baby brother in a big way without any small thing interrupting my thoughts of him.
It feels weird to acknowledge the day he came into the world, the day he left the world, the every holiday gathering he is missed in this world. It feels weird because I recognize it's some linear way we keep ourselves together, compartmentalizing the moments we dwell on loss. I liked Ian's birthdays - I remember how excited he would get waiting to blow out the candles, the grin on his face as he ran around the neighborhood all hopped up on cake and ice cream. More than that, I miss the everyday. I miss calling him up to go to Sam's for a late breakfast, or running into him at the laundromat when we were both going for showers. I miss his big laugh and how his face would just change when he smiled into something full of such...joy. Such an overwhelming gush of life.
Usually when I'm writing about him, I'll put on some Iron & Wine or some Beatles, or something else that fills me with his presence...which has a tendancy to make me contract with loss. Right now, I'm listening to the Maggies and a song called The Long Dark See You and it makes me think that maybe someday, through this loneliness, I'll look to the side and see him smiling at me again.
He would be 28 this year.
Then just two hours, and that is morn.
May 7th will mark Ian's birthday. Unlike previous years when I have been a little more apt to allow my emotions to surface, I've been studiously avoiding thinking about this marker of our loss. I've said to a few folks that I think I'm being avoidant because it's just too big for me to look at directly right now. I have other things going on in my personal life and I want to be able to hold myself together enough to function for the next few weeks until I get home to the 'banks. And you know, I really want to face this in a way that feels like it does him honor. I want to spend some time just missing my baby brother in a big way without any small thing interrupting my thoughts of him.
It feels weird to acknowledge the day he came into the world, the day he left the world, the every holiday gathering he is missed in this world. It feels weird because I recognize it's some linear way we keep ourselves together, compartmentalizing the moments we dwell on loss. I liked Ian's birthdays - I remember how excited he would get waiting to blow out the candles, the grin on his face as he ran around the neighborhood all hopped up on cake and ice cream. More than that, I miss the everyday. I miss calling him up to go to Sam's for a late breakfast, or running into him at the laundromat when we were both going for showers. I miss his big laugh and how his face would just change when he smiled into something full of such...joy. Such an overwhelming gush of life.
Usually when I'm writing about him, I'll put on some Iron & Wine or some Beatles, or something else that fills me with his presence...which has a tendancy to make me contract with loss. Right now, I'm listening to the Maggies and a song called The Long Dark See You and it makes me think that maybe someday, through this loneliness, I'll look to the side and see him smiling at me again.
He would be 28 this year.