I forgot the number “6” candle for his cake. Our sweet boy would have turned six on February fifth, and instead of spending my energy focusing on all of the memories and the other things that really matter, my brain chose to dig its claws into a stupid candle. It’s not to say that I didn’t also sit with my memories and feel all of the emotions I normally do every day, and especially on birthdays and anniversaries, but the candle became a real focus. Forgetting it represented so much for me- the passage of time since losing him, feeling like I’d somehow let him down, missing the chance to see his age alight on the cake I baked him. We still upheld so many other traditions we’ve established in the previous 5 years- we got his special green star balloon, we looked at pictures of him, we sang him happy birthday, we shared messages with family and friends- but I continued to be disproportionately hard on myself about the candle.
In the weeks following his birthday, I have taken time to reflect on why the candle meant so much. I think that when you lose someone, and in particular perhaps, when it’s an out-of-order death, you continue to maintain a worldly attachment to them through the rituals and traditions you have on birthdays and anniversaries. As the years have passed following Miles’ death, I continue to lose him in new ways- when I need to look at videos to recall the exact sound of his laugh; when I watch peers of his grow and reach new milestones; when even people close to us begin to forget to mark his special days. When I feel these losses begin to close in on me, there are things I cling to- things that have perhaps come to mean more than they should- so that I can reassure myself that I remain connected to him, and that we will continue to celebrate him.
Not only are the birthday and anniversary traditions ways to celebrate Miles, but they are also ways I get to continue to show up as his mom. Grief is sometimes described as love with nowhere to go, and that sentiment rings so very true for me. With Miles gone, I find myself continually searching for ways to continue to parent him. I recognize that it may seem odd to want to parent a child who is no longer here, but I’ve spoken with many bereaved parents who have the same urge. In the case of my living child, I get to cook her healthy food, read her books, give her cuddles, and get her gifts I know she’ll like on her birthday. But with Miles, I have so far fewer physical ways to engage as his mother. I can’t give him cuddles, and I don’t know what six-year-old Miles would want as a birthday present (would he like Spiderman, or dinosaurs?), or what birthday cake he would choose (would he prefer chocolate or vanilla?), or where he would want his party (at home, or at a pool or indoor playground?). What I do know is that he would almost certainly want cake with a candle, and that he would like balloons, and that he would love receiving messages from family and friends. So I guess it makes sense that these tangible ways to parent him have become so precious to me, and so upsetting when they’re forgotten.
The day Miles was born six years ago was transcendent. It was the day I entered an entirely new chapter and became a completely new version of myself. Continuing to celebrate that day for him and for us is a sacred commitment that I know I’ll uphold until the day I die. I will also continue to try to afford myself grace and forgiveness for the years when I will inevitably forget a candle or balloon. In many different ways on Miles’ birthday, just like every other day of the year, I will show up as his mother- the one born along with him on February 5, 2020.
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