Polka-dot ribbons resurface, having been buried in the bathroom drawer for a fantasized future of tying up pigtails. We’re still finding medication notes taped to the inside of cabinet doors and sorting borrowed clothing that had been shared with smaller friends. Her brother eats the rice cereal that was stocked in the pantry for the sister he'll never know. Although it's the first Mother's Day without her, traces of her life, and the life we’d dreamed for her, remain.
Last night Andy recalled the way her hair rolled into ringlets and fell around her face, the way, when she rested in his lap, the tight waves on the top of her head felt against his cheek. Her curls, mimicking the double helix of the DNA that betrayed her, took
no notice of her diagnosis, knew nothing of what the rest of her body
dealt. I admitted that I miss winding those curls around my finger too. I miss looking at her face and trying to grab her eyes with mine,
recognizing myself in their reflection. Thinking about her, the air smelled sweet, as though reminiscing secreted physical properties into the dark evening around us. We sat beside each other there, while memories of her rolled down our cheeks.
Parenthood, we've learned, comes with a tremendous responsibility to
suffer the threat of things we neither understand nor can do a thing
about.
So we do what we can do. We give the boys kisses when words fail. We plant our lips on their cheeks, heavy with all the messages we cannot verbalize. We press our mouths to their foreheads, firm with our will for the best. We give them all the kisses we can no longer give her.
We have our share of blessings, without even counting past the first.
JEB
17. attempt number I lost count
