You would be 28 today.
I’m thinking back to the night you were born and the sweet, damp scent of you. I’m remembering your newness and the joy of meeting you and holding you and knowing you.
I remember those first moments of seeing you. The feeling that you had always been a part of my soul, the knowing that you always would be. The lingering weight of love settling over us as we slept at last, a blanket both heavy and warm.
I was 28 when you were formed in me. When God knitted you together and wrote your story. I’m glad I didn’t know any of it. I’m happy for those years when life swirled in vibrant color, spinning us around and making us laugh.
I’m grateful for all the memories of you. They float in my heart like shiny rainbow bubbles, and I guard them so they do not pop. There is always this fear of forgetting details.
But you, Beanie, are part of me. I am not afraid of forgetting you.
We finally went to the ocean. Remember how we had to cancel our plan to go before your surgery because of the hurricane?
And last year we just didn’t have the will to go.
We saw dolphins and shrimp boats and seagulls. I watched every sunrise and every sunset, and I remembered. How you loved the sky and the beautiful things. Books and children. Laughter and friends. God.
How you embraced all the living you were given.
We remember. We love you. We miss you so much.
Happy birthday, Rissa.