Our Beautiful Birthday Boy

Dear Rett,

Today you would be 7 years old–Lucky 7. Seven is the number of completeness and perfection (both physical and spiritual). It is directly tied to God’s creation of all things, and is associated with a deep inward knowing–like what we saw in your eyes and your owl-like persona. In our world, you are one of the Seven Wonders and always will be.

Although you are no longer here, we’ll still take the time to celebrate you, even though it isn’t the same. Each year your birthday comes around and each year we’re blown away by how quickly time passes without you. As we watch your sister grow, you stay the same size in our hearts. We can only imagine what you would look like, how your voice would sound, how proud you’d be making us.

Please know we are ok. That we cherish and trust the signs you send us. Like last week, when I drove down to meet with our friends the Austins for an afternoon hike, the sun poured into the moon roof heading south on I-95. I felt warm and content–lucky even. Suddenly I noticed the license plate of the car in front of me… 4RT 222. I literally almost drove off the road. 4RT=For Rett, 222=the day you left this earth. Clearly you were telling us, “I’m watching over Evan Austin, I will protect him for as long as I can from that DIPG monster.” Or that’s what I like to believe.

Or yesterday, when your sister was outwardly expressing the eternal void of a bereaved sibling. Her sweet, social-emotional nature intuitively shines through during these days around your birthday and death anniversary. She cries over silly things, wants extra cuddles, and says “I love you” at least 70 times upon waking. Getting dressed after her tubby turned into spontaneous tears. As I hugged her tightly, acknowledging her grief, the fire detector nearby suddenly started blaring for absolutely no reason. “Hi Rett,” I thought. “Yes we see you. Yes we hear you.”

Last night, the eve of your birthday, was the brightest night so far this year as a Pink Super Moon filled the sky after sunset and into the early morning of April 27. You were born at 6am seven years ago and I feel the downward pull in my abdomen. The phantom limb of giving birth that any mother knows well. I know your cells are still within me–that an infinitesimal part of you lives on. And I feel utterly blessed to have carried you in my womb, nursed you at my breast, and held you for your last breath.

Your birthday buddy, your dad, feels this loss as deeply as Evie and I do. Each night he tirelessly lucubrates over his memoir of you–(he’ll love the big word, but I probably used it incorrectly)–a shrine to you his third eye’s focus, the ambient sounds of Brian Eno to pacify the intensity of this work. His discipline and determination an honorable expression of his fatherly love. He fills the chasm of your demise with words and sentences that ascend and blossom like morning glory, like the glory we felt the morning you arrived.

I will always remember fondly your first birthday–how is it we never even spent one together!?–at the monastery of Sant Benet de Montserrat in Barcelona, Spain. But I can do this sacred day no justice and prefer to share the beauty of what your dad wrote instead.

Montserrat steals our hearts more slowly, endearment swelled with every step and gaze around its sprawling crag-embedded grounds. It cuts an otherworldly stance even from afar, the mile-long tram from the mountain base bringing the monastery into ever-grander focus. An April Monday crowd makes for near-solitary walks along the trails surrounding the Abbey of Santa Maria, along which stands a series of modest shrines erected to regard the Virgin Mother, one every fifty or so yards. Beneath each are tiny trinkets or tokens of remembrance, candles melted to nubs and wax cascading off the makeshift altars. We time our hike to coincide with 12:22, the trio of threes marking the day of his death, at which point we’ll visit the closest shrine and honor his first birthday. Many have said the first will be the hardest, a warning we’ve internalized well enough to plan this cross-pond whirlwind. Though no amount of movement or views can fully thin the venom forever coursing forth: the fury we feel that he never knew the sound of people singing solely for him.     –Jim Cavan, When You Rise

We will forever know and love you, son, no matter how old we grow and how far from you we feel. Or should we instead trust the old adage, “we will meet again one day?” So that in essence, each passing day brings us not further but closer to you.

Love to eternity and back,

Your Family