It is the same day every year, May 3rd. The day that we mark one more year without you and also how old you would be. It is the one day in the year that we take time for you, that people send us kind words and thoughts, the one time in 365 days that you are acknowledged by more than our immediate circle of people.
Like many other years, your dad and I took flowers to the cemetery. Hoping not to repeat previous years searching the city for blue orchids, I ordered them a week ahead of time this year. When we arrived at the florist, the orchids were not in due to a delay in the shipment. Purple orchids would have to do. While we waited for the orchids to be wrapped I saw a hanging plant called "baby tears," it seemed apropos that it come with us.
At your graveside, we laughed at the mishap again this year in trying to secure blue orchids. After my laughter turned to tears, your dad reminded me that today wasn't meant to be perfect. I think there is a part of him that believes you have a hand in this; a prankster like your siblings and like him. Your stone was dirty after a year of neglect and we both took turns rubbing it with an old cloth grocery bag to remove what moss and debris we could. We promised to come back with something more effective to polish it up. It is one of the physical things we can care for in your absence.
We didn't stay long at your stone and today in the misty grey of the day, we strolled around the neighbourhood admiring the beautiful houses that are an extension of this century old area. Every year we picture ourselves living in one of the regal houses with the manicured lawns and we point out which ones are our favourites. I think it brings us comfort that we often point out the same ones. Some of the gardens are blooming with Forget-Me-Nots and as we wander, I imagine what it would be like to live just a block from you and the word peaceful comes to mind.
Our time with you is limited and we drive thirty minutes to treat ourselves to lunch. We cannot stay in this place of memorialization too much longer; we feel compelled to get home in the midst of this pandemic. Before we do, we get a cake for the family to enjoy after dinner. Sitting in the car, eating our sandwiches, I comment that I feel like I am parenting a ghost. Your dad solemnly nods and I continue that we imagine you on our family vacations, acknowledge you in our home and workplaces. We picture you at our family game nights and how we would navigate another teenager devastated by the restrictions of the pandemic. We think about this birthday, your nineteenth, and how we would celebrate this with you. Maybe you would be here with us or maybe you would be away at school. Possibly you would be angry that this birthday had to be subdued or maybe you would be grateful for the lack of fanfare. Parenting a ghost comes with some unanswered imaginings.
