Twenty-three

 Hey, you! C'mere, let me give you a hug. You're not too big for that yet, are you?

Of course you're not. You're, well, still tiny, still only one day old. This one day, twenty-three years ago, when you left us, your mom and I, just a day after you arrived.

The only place your grew up was in our hearts.

This day, and all those before and after. The days I dreamed of and hoped for and never had. Dreamed of all the things we'd do together; good...and bad, happy and sad, cheerful or angry or bored or silly.

They never happened, did they, dearest?

Now there's only this day, the day you climb up the dark stairwell and sit beside me as I cry.

Because I still miss you.

Oh, yes; there's your little brother and little sister. Yes, they're great. I love them to pieces, and always will.

But today is about you, the big sister they never had, the little girl and young woman I never got to know.

This year was even harder because I'm not just missing you but missing your mom. The first time in twenty-three years we haven't had a partner to console each other, a friend and lover to give and receive comfort. 

I called your mom today. Told her that she was in my heart, and hoped that she could find some solace in that, find some peace. It's hard on her, y'know. She carried you closer than her own skin, slept behind your heartbeat for three-quarters of a year. She dies a little every time this year thinking of and missing you.

And so do I, in a different way.

Because every year, every time this day comes, I look into the darkness for the tiny flame that was your too-brief stay with us, to remember you, to grieve for you. To wish against all the years that we had another chance, knowing we never will. 

To have the years of you, child and girl and woman grown, father and daughter, loving and beloved.

So. Sit beside me for a little while. I promise I won't try and hold you when you have to go. But just now, for this time, just for this day, let me sit and dream the dream I dreamed, the dream of the you that never came.

Bryn Rose Gellar
March 1, 2002 - March 2, 2002

Twenty-two

Oh, hey. I almost didn't see you there, sweetie.

C'mere. Siddown for a bit, can you? I'm just finishing this up, I'll be right with you.

That? Oh, it's some sort of IPA. Yeah, cliche, I know. Hey, I like 'em well enough, now that the Northwest is mostly over the "can you top this" bitterness craze. Go ahead, try a sip.

Yeah? Well, it was seven bucks at Grocery Outlet. Probably a reason for that, eh?

It's been a long year, hasn't it?

Retired? Yeah. Still working into that. Your mom is running in circles over at school; more to do, fewer to do it. Kid brother still gaming 24-7, baby sis ready to spread her wings and fly off to college...

Would you be there now?

Getting ready to graduate? Doctor, lawyer, beggarman, thief? Would you be working, instead? Putting in your forty hours behind a wrench or behind a desk?

Would you be cadging a drink from me like this, nasty hoppy IPA or what?

How much else would we have shared?

Your younger siblings share almost nothing with me. Your sister and I are both theater buffs, but she's very different from me in every other way. Your brother? I don't get him and never have.

And I never got the chance to know you.

I wish I had. I wish I'd been able to grow with you, to share your happiness and sorrow. To know you, as I had hoped, all those many years ago. But this day came, and went, and so did you, forever one day old.

I don't miss you the way your mother does. For her you're a huge hole in her heart, a part of her she'll never find, the end of her dreams for and of you.

I miss the you who never was. The little girl, the young woman, the strong daughter who, in the best way of fathers and daughters, stood by me into the grave and carried my memory beyond it.

Instead, we have yesterday, and today, and then you'll be gone again. Here, have another sip. Yeah, it gets a little better after a couple. Still not very good. Seven bucks worth.

But let's have a last round, you and I. And grin and shake our heads and look away, and when I look back you'll be gone.

Until the next time, love. Goodbye. I love you. I miss you.

Goodbye.

Bryn Rose Gellar. March 1, 2002 - March 2, 2002

Seventeen

Seventeen years ago this day you left us.

To this day we are still bereft.

Your mother for the baby she never cradled, the life that grew inside her all those long, difficult months fled before you took your first breath. For her hopes, her dreams, her plans, all the things you were for her gone in a bitterness that she still carries within her heart.

For me it was today.

This today. Today the morning after your birthday, when I would have given you the keys to the old beater Honda, with stern warnings about driving with boys who had been drinking and parking with boy who hadn't.

This today, where we early risers would have shared silent coffee in a darkened house, your hair a tousled halo about your face.

All the todays that we never had; the fights and the cuddles and the excitement and the tears. The skinned toes and the algebra tests and the silly laughs and the midnight fears.

Slowly the pain and the loss has diminished, as your tiny spark of life fades with the years.

Today I can write this without crying. Today I can think of you as just a loss, a grief, the greatest of many, instead of a ragged hole in my chest where this day ripped out my beating heart and held it before my face to taunt me with the brutal randomness of life and death.

Today I miss you with a wet-eyed sadness instead of a huge, remorseless, tearing grief.

But.

That grief is still there, my dear.

That hole where you should be, young and strong and tall and alive, is still in my heart and will be until it runs slowly down and stops beating. The way yours did, this day seventeen years ago.

Goodbye again, my very dear. Goodbye.

Yes. I'll be here again next year.

I'll make the coffee; rich as joy, dark as night, and strong as love.

And I'll sit and sip and wait for you to come. And we'll sit and be silent together, until you have to leave again.

Bryn Rose Gellar.
March 1, 2002-March 2 2002