Last year, when George was born, it was wet and grey. The world was desaturated, the color drained from the sky and soaked through to the soil where it stayed for a very long time- a still-life in charcoals. This year, if George's birthday was a painting it would have been a watercolor. All washed out in pale shades of blues and greens with pops of purples and yellows. There would be ink-outlined objects and figures, giving some definition to the pooling and mottling of the colors.
We didn't anticipate that contrast between this year and last but spring, in all of its vibrancy and softness, has come to this part of the world. After one of the wettest winters on record here, all the wildflowers have begun to stretch toward the sky to gratefully meet the sun. Small, delicate stems and buds belie their tenacity to grow in even the most peculiar places. Flowers ornament the empty lots and poke through the cracks in the sidewalk. Brightly colored graffiti, splashed on the dirty concrete walls, reach down to meet equally brightly colored tiny flowers growing through the asphalt.
When George's birthday finally came upon us we didn't have any big plans. Just a drive out of town, two kites -a goldfish and a phoenix- and a wish for some seclusion. I wore my new blue dress. Leif; his favorite chambray shirt. We found ourselves driving along side vast swathes of yellow and purple wildflowers, spreading over the green hillside opposite the blue of the Pacific Ocean.
After some time we stopped for brunch and then into a children's store with the intent of buying a toy for a one year old that we could donate to a local charitable organization. We figured that we would continue with the tradition that we started in December so that every holiday or birthday some other child who is the age that George would be gets a new toy to play with they way we wish George could. In the end we picked a wooden duck push toy that flaps its wings and quacks; something we would have gotten for George.
Before heading out to find a beach we purchased a simple unlined, black moleskin journal that we decided will be George's Birthday Book. Each year we will write to him and tell the story of what we did to remember the anniversary of the day he was born. There will be photos of his day and, hopefully, notes from his siblings. Something that will grow and change as we grow and change.
After driving around for almost an hour, looking for a suitable beach (one without throngs of college students), we took a chance and parked alongside a trail that led into a thicket of wildflowers. Not sure of where we were going, but knowing the general direction of the beach, we walked along the path for about twenty minutes before coming to the edge of a steep cliff that dropped off above the beach.
There was no easy way to climb down but we eventually found a precarious little path weaving around the jettied rocks and outcroppings. About two thirds of the way down we realized that it was not the wisest thing for a woman five months pregnant to be trying to traverse but I made it down safe and sound.
A view of the path we came down. Would not recommend for pregnant women. Especially those in short dresses.
As it turns out, scrambling down a very steep pathway is not for everyone so we ended up nearly completely by ourselves, aside from the occasional ambler from the nearby nude beach (life certainly has a sense of humor, even in the least humorous of times). Those next couple of hours we spent assembling kites, attempting to fly them with no real success due a pathetic lack of the requisite wind, and generally just feeling the absence of our son. Together we wrote George's name in the sand and decorated it with shells and as 4:00 rolled around, the time when he was born, we wrote out George's 1st birthday letters in his Birthday Book.
Had to fake this shot as our poor kites never did make it very far off the ground.
Twenty four "official" minutes of life is so brief. It is a half hour sitcom devoid of commercials. It is the amount of time it takes me to shower and get ready for bed every night. It is the amount of time it takes to eat a packed lunch or read an article in a magazine. George lived for twenty four minutes, although I assume he was gone for some minutes before they actually declared him dead. So very miniscule in the grand scheme of time. Not much more than a spark in the dark.
I picked wildflowers for George along the scramble back up the cliff and the walk through the fields. Purples and blues and yellows, all tiny little blooms. A bouquet of wild growing flowers made from blossoms that exist for such a short time each year. They sprout in the cool early weeks of spring only to return back to the soil a piddling time later. A fitting gift for our own little wildflower. A gift we will add to the letters and the photographs and the stories every year on his birthday.
To where ever you are, even if you only exist in my dreams, Happy Birthday son. We love you forever.
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Thank you to everyone who remembered George on his birthday and offered kind words of encouragement. You have touched our hearts. Family and friends shared with us the ways they remembered him as well and it touched us to know that his existence has not gone forgotten.
