My nephew Wolf was born last week. He's perfect, beautiful, and healthy and my sister is exhausted and emotional and absolutely on Cloud Nine with her sweet baby. It genuinely is wonderful to see (and I got to be there in Arizona for his arrival!), but of course it brings heavy emotions closer to the surface. My parents have three grandsons and two granddaughters and the three boys were all born in June which is special. When asked how many grandchildren he had, my ears couldn't help but eavesdrop as my dad replied, "five, but four living." I was so grateful for that reply and that acknowledgement of Cale.
What Wolf's arrival reminded me of was not only how damn special and amazing a newborns (SAFE) arrival is, but just how sad I am that Cale did not have that experience. Of course I'm sad for all our family has missed out over these last seven years, but I was reminded that his birth was not a celebration. It was grief and heartbreak and darkness. And that's just so unfair. Because he was and is none of those things. He was excitement and hope and love and he is beauty and gratitude and LOVE.
Seven years seems so big, but I find myself thinking that every year. Early on I used to think how it was my baby who I was missing. I wanted my baby back. But lately I've been searching for what my seven year old would be like and it seems he's a familiar stranger to me. I've always said I miss who he was and miss who he should have been, but what's hard is missing what you don't even know. Who you don't even know. Tonight at dinner Finn asked why Cale had to die and after telling him that I just don't know and I wish he didn't, he simply stated, "but he should be here with us." Yes, sweetie. He should.
Happy seven to you, Cale. Wish you were here with us. Always.