I haven’t written much lately. I’ve tried to get caught up in the Christmas spirit, but this year no one really seemed to feel it. Myself included. We all wanted to just get it over with. Everyone was happy to see each other, but we all spoke of our relief that the season was ending.
Part of it is not having you here, at least for your Daddy and me. It’s hard, with so many new and about-to-be-here babies in our life, not having you here to share in it. This should have been your first Christmas, and I couldn’t seem to care without you. I think your Grandmas felt that too.
I don’t really know what to say. It’s hard sometimes, when I sit down to write to you, to put the swirling collective cloud of lovejoygratitudesorrowlonlinessfrustrationgriefwonder thoughts into words and sentences. I can’t make linear statements about these completely nonliniar thoughts, and I can’t make them make sense, because most of them, considered, don’t.
I think about you often in whatever place you are. I often think about you playing with other children who have gone before you–particularly with Layla. Less often I think of you with your great-grandparents, and with my own brother who died at about the same age you did. Sometimes I think of you as what age you would be now. Other times I think of you as an older child, even as an adult. And sometimes I imagine you as a being so much wiser and more conscious than myself, now that you aren’t limited by these pods of electricity and raw meat.
Sometimes I feel like you are near me; some little spiritual nudge, a drawing of my attention to some small thing–sometimes helpful, sometimes funny, sometimes sad. You make me see the patterns in the frost, the shape of the bare white trees against the dark firs in the woods, the moonlight reflecting off of waves. And I see something small and perfect and beautiful like that, and part of my heart says that’s Isaac. Brief and beautiful and perfect. I can carry the moonlight on the crashing waves on Christmas Eve in my heart the same way I carry the indescribable shade of red your tiny lips were.
I find myself confused by my own writing here. Why the serious tone? Why are these letters–this blog–not funny? Why can I be my dark, funny self here? I’m thoughtful and reflective outside of this, of course. But the biggest thing in our life is laughter. Your very name means laughter. And the people closest to us, to you, are the very same people I can make pitch black deadbaby jokes to. Even alone, I make jokes. Constantly. Out loud. (You might have noticed this, actually).
I guess this post (which, originally, was going to be me saying that every time I watch Mythbusters, I have the random intrusive thought that Kari and I were pregnant at the same time and her baby is alive and mine isn’t) has winnowed itself down to a New Year’s resolution to be more relaxed and funny here.
Perhaps it is a different phase of my grief; the part where I don’t just talk about the deep, quiet, solemn parts about your life, or the wistful memories of it. Perhaps now is when I write fewer “letters” and more “blog posts.” Perhaps it is time to speak not just to you, but openly to those who are reading this.
It’s a start.