It’s two days before Little Mae and I celebrate another birthday. It’s a bittersweet time. The excitement (for her) of growing another year older brings with it the memory of the friend who isn’t here. Her cousin, Porter, should be here. We should have just celebrated him turning seven. They were due just days apart.
He is in heaven.
I felt it this morning. The heaviness surrounding his loss. The reminder that my child’s name means bitter grace for a reason. I wonder if this ties in with my word this year, as my heart returns to a place of sorrow.
I checked. Her nickname, Mae, means bitter, as well. Bitter or pearl. Interesting since the pearl is June’s birth stone.
So as I try to start the day in all of its crazy chaos, I am reminded that this heaviness in my heart is real. That things are broken on our side of the stormy banks. That just because time passes and seasons change doesn’t make it right or ok or suddenly all better.
Seven years ago I thought Little Mae was going to be born today. I thought that June 5 would be her birthday. Turns out, she had other plans. Birth-curious people can read all about them here.
With all of this swirling around inside, I will engage the now which has an almost-seven-year-old asking for an episode pick in spite of my many no responses and bellies that are becoming ravenous and need breakfast.
All while remembering.