I’m not making sense. Simply put, today is my niece’s birthday. Her name is Caterina and she would have turned two today. Or she is two today, somewhere. She died when she was two months old.
My family has done a very good job in acting out a kind of living memorial to this person who was with us for such a short time. We light a pink candle when we eat together as a family on special occasions (and lately any chance for us all to be together is a special occasion). She has a Christmas stocking, we slip private notes and letters into it on Christmas, and put up her ornaments on the tree, all that. We celebrate her birthday, we’ve gotten together twice now. This year we released balloons on the beach and sent our birthday wishes with them- towards the sky, toward heaven, however you want to put it. When something good happens, something as small and miraculous as a great parking spot when I’m having an awful day, we say it’s Caterina’s doing. We look up and we say “Thanks, kid.”
And it’s not maudlin or somber. Or dramatic. We’re not all shrouded in black and weeping like old Italian widows. Our lives haven’t stopped in deference to tragedy. There’s a picture of her on my desk, yeah, but no shrine to what should’ve been. It’s been two years. If I had to describe it, at least for myself, this stuff is all touched with a little sadness, yes, but it’s also just, you know, The Way Things Are Now. My oldest and dearest friend’s mom calls it Grief Weaving, a way you integrate the memory of someone you love, whom you’ve lost, into your life. And yeah, that’s what we did. (And maybe it's just because your mom gets it, Kate, but I know you understand. Sometimes you’re the only one who does and I appreciate that more than you will ever know)
If I were in New York, close in geography to my family, today would be easier in a way. If I were a little quieter at dinner or silenced my phone or snapped at someone unnecessarily, it would be understood why. But no, I had to be an independent brat and I chose to live 3,000 miles away and this is the part that sucks. Because as close as I am to my friends here, my Urban Family, and the people I work with, you can’t help feeling like they just don’t want to hear it. Not in a cruel way, of course, not in an altogether unsensitive, blase way. More in a humoring nod, don’t-ask-questions, change-the-subject kind of way.
You pray that the undercurrent of discomfort is not them saying, “Get over it already.”
Because I love all of these people for good, solid reasons, I assume it has to do with them not knowing what to say or what I need on a day like today. You love me and you should care and so I’m just going to tell you. This is what I want. No, this is what I need. Don’t change the subject. Ask me how my sister is. When I tell you we celebrated her birthday, ask me what we did and who was there. You don’t have to ask me what she was like when she was alive. I don’t want to make anyone sad. I won’t cry when I answer. I won’t go into long, drawn out detail. I won’t make you go to a dark place in your own heart where your own grief still lives. It's like when I ask you how your last vacation was, what you did and where you stayed and what it was like- I’m asking because I care, because it was important to you. It's not much different from that.
But you know what- it’s fine. I feel better already. Because all I wanted to do today was say her name out loud and I did it. And so I ended up doing it here, largely to myself. That’s fine. I’m done. Like most important things in life, what I really needed turned out to be just that simple.
