At this time last year I wrote about MLK Jr., Kennedy, and me. It should be on my mind again this weekend, but this year I hardly remembered why the third Monday of January is recognized as a national holiday. It’s not the late Dr. King’s birthday I’m remembering.
It’s my husband’s. My late husband’s.
And my mother’s. My late mother’s.
When Mom died a little over twenty years ago, I worried over whether anyone else would remember her birthday. I didn’t want her to be forgotten. And I knew I’d miss her even more on her birthday than I did every other day without her.
Celebrating my husband’s birthday without my mother’s was hard, but he helped me get through each of hers. He said things like:
“I know today is a hard one.”
“I’m sure you’re thinking of your mom today.”
“I miss her, too.”
When my husband died a little over five years ago, I couldn’t face the thought of Mom’s birthday without him.
And I couldn’t face the thought of his birthday at all. I was too broken.
A dear friend came to spend time with me. She listened when I cried and ranted. She reminded me to eat (and made me food when I still forgot). By her presence, she showed me how much she cared.
And that she remembered. By doing so, she helped me gather up pieces of my fragmented self.
Fast forward five years — to now.
My life is good again — different, but good. Most days are much easier to get through than they were in the first couple of years after he died.
But some days — like his birthday and like my mom’s, which fall so close together — are harder than others. On those occasions, grief leaks more easily through the patched-up holes where I put myself together in my new normal.
If you know someone who is grieving lost loved ones, share your memories of them.
And if you know their birthdays, let them know you’re thinking of them then, too.