Frozen Memories
27: the age he would have been today.
16: the last birthday he celebrated.
10: the number of years he hasn't sat at my table.
He was only a few months away from his 17th birthday. Had he stayed, I would have, over the last decade, watched as he'd grown broader and taller. I would have cried and laughed and been frustrated over things he said and did. I would have hugged him tight and embarrassed him with kisses. I can imagine what he might have grown into, what we might have (fill in an emotion here) about these last ten years. They are only imaginings. There's no way to know what would have happened, had he stayed.
This morning, however, on his 27th birthday, I do know. I know that within a few minutes of waking up I would have been singing 'Happy Birthday' to my son. Whether he was stationed overseas, living down the hallway from me, or couch surfing between friends' places, I would rise up and be singing his birthday song to him in person or into a phone.
It was a tradition. When he was here, I would burst into his messy bedroom and sprawl beside him on his bed as I sang. He would groan, and I would sing. He would roll over and/or pull his comforter over his head as I would finish the song with motherly enthusiasm. His obligatory protests about the early hour, however, were half-hearted and never hid his little smirk that told me he appreciated the tradition.
This morning, fog coats the corn fields that surround my house on north and east, blanketing everything with an uncomfortable dew. Appropriate for my mood, it blocks me from view of the road as I stand on the porch, quietly singing 'Happy Birthday, Robbie' for the 11th time without him.
I hope he hears me, wherever he is now. I hope he still rolls his eyes and shakes his head, while his cheek dimples with a smirk as he acknowledges how much he actually loves the attention.
Happy 27th Birthday, Robbie. Momma loves you, up to the moon and over the sun. I miss you just as much.
16: the last birthday he celebrated.
10: the number of years he hasn't sat at my table.
He was only a few months away from his 17th birthday. Had he stayed, I would have, over the last decade, watched as he'd grown broader and taller. I would have cried and laughed and been frustrated over things he said and did. I would have hugged him tight and embarrassed him with kisses. I can imagine what he might have grown into, what we might have (fill in an emotion here) about these last ten years. They are only imaginings. There's no way to know what would have happened, had he stayed.
This morning, however, on his 27th birthday, I do know. I know that within a few minutes of waking up I would have been singing 'Happy Birthday' to my son. Whether he was stationed overseas, living down the hallway from me, or couch surfing between friends' places, I would rise up and be singing his birthday song to him in person or into a phone.
It was a tradition. When he was here, I would burst into his messy bedroom and sprawl beside him on his bed as I sang. He would groan, and I would sing. He would roll over and/or pull his comforter over his head as I would finish the song with motherly enthusiasm. His obligatory protests about the early hour, however, were half-hearted and never hid his little smirk that told me he appreciated the tradition.
This morning, fog coats the corn fields that surround my house on north and east, blanketing everything with an uncomfortable dew. Appropriate for my mood, it blocks me from view of the road as I stand on the porch, quietly singing 'Happy Birthday, Robbie' for the 11th time without him.
I hope he hears me, wherever he is now. I hope he still rolls his eyes and shakes his head, while his cheek dimples with a smirk as he acknowledges how much he actually loves the attention.
Happy 27th Birthday, Robbie. Momma loves you, up to the moon and over the sun. I miss you just as much.
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