Heartache, birthday, & soup

An autumn day. Sugar maple yellows and reds are firecrackers exploding against the blue sky. Cool air calls for a scarf wrapped loosely around the neck, against a heavy, cable-knit sweater. A never-ending carpet of dogwood and oak leaves muffle footfalls leading from our house, today. Loading boxes in the car. Returns. Years shared, packed with haste and anger.

It has been a “summer into fall season” of heartache for our household. Not sorrow as with death, but the dull heartache from reminders of loss both past and recent. Driving down the neighborhood streets, tears fill the eyes unexpectedly. Absence of objects associated with love and friendships. Voids shout at the eye. Autumn is the season that honors loss. Blossoms die. Trees stand in their solitude, grey and skeletal. Animals begin to burrow into the deep, lining their dens for warmth while their bodies armor themselves for stillness. Slow. Patient. Warm.

Tonight is for family. Small. Quiet. Intimate. We are honoring a birthday. We are reclaiming one that was fraught with pain and hurt. We are owning it tonight for our son, a night that could have well been his birthday if he had not been so anxious to join us twenty-six years ago. We will share a home cooked meal – a simple one the color of autumn – carrot soup. We will have cake and gifts. Candles will be lit. We will affirm – no matter what happens in a week, a year, or in life – our family remains steadfast.

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