To Jackson, on his fourth birthday

Dear Jackson,

This has been a strange week. Shoot, it’s been a strange MONTH. For one thing, there’s been peace between myself and the month of March. That’s definitely new. I’ve been able to put aside past differences and hurts and see the beauty in this month. The buds of life growing on the trees, the days that struggle to be warmer than the days before it (even though they’re not always successful), the different shade of blue the sky is taking on during those rare, clear days. I’ve paid extra attention to the mercies in this month. There’ve been several, and not just ones concerning me.

But this week takes the cake. This is a week I normally dread all year long. Something to survive, get through, move past. “Another birthday down,” I’ll say to myself. No celebrations, though. Only remembrance. This year, however, there has been celebration. And this has been a week that has been greatly anticipated. This week saw your baby sister come into the world.

^{Wrapped around her little finger already}

She looks like you. I know it sounds improbable, but she does. Even your dad is skeptical. He agrees that her hair resembles yours, in that it looks more like yours did than any of the other boys’ hair. But he thinks the similarities end there. I think he thinks that I’m reading too much into it. I don’t think so. I was holding her last night, up against my chest after we’d had yet another successful breastfeeding session and I swear to you, in that moment her face looked just like yours. Her mouth, my mouth, looked just like yours. The set of her eyes, closed as they were, just like yours. The shape of her nose and curve of her cheeks… the retreating chin that it seems all newborns have…

Maybe she doesn’t look exactly like you, but it’s close enough in my book.

It’s strange being back in this hospital, four years later. So many things have changed here since then. Then again, a lot of things are the same. This room we’re in right now is the ghost of the room we stayed in after you were born. Not the same. But close enough. It makes me think of you, a lot. My mind is filled with the memories of you, of that awful day four years ago and of the total redemption we have found here this year. It’s nothing short of a miracle.

The corny side of me wonders if you looked after your baby sister in heaven, if you held her little hand and ushered her down here and into our arms yourself. If your soul kissed hers before sending her to the family you never got to enjoy. It’s corny, I tried to warn you. But I have had that thought.

Your dad and brothers and grandparents are going to visit your spot at the cemetery today. Part of me wishes I could be there but part of me is glad I won’t be. You’re not there anymore than you’re here, in fact, you’re probably just as much here as you are there. And we have no marker for you there yet, something that makes me sad every time we visit. It’s not that we don’t love you. Please know that. I will change that, eventually. They’ll bring you some flowers, stand over your spot and think about what could have been. Wish you a happy birthday (and a happy Easter too!). I suppose I can do the same (well, minus the flowers) here at the hospital, can’t I?

Thank you for touching our lives. I do wish what your four year old self would have been like today. Would you have been thrilled to share your big birthday with Easter? Would you have competed with Harry to see who could find the most hidden eggs (and gotten frustrated, likely, when Harry found more)? Would you have argued the case for eating your chocolate bunny before church, even though it would make you wild? Would you have insisted we have birthday cake for desert after our ham dinner and that we open presents as soon as possible? Things to think about.

It’s a special day. It’s a special year. You were our special boy. We miss you, love you. We won’t ever forget you. I’ll leave you now, with the song that we always think of as being “yours”.

Love,

Your mama