I looked out the window over our bed at those stars that don't talk back and they still weren't talking back, but they were bright, so bright they looked like Constellations for Dummies.
Three years ago right now... and I tried to remember exactly when they were born, and I couldn't, except that it was night. And so the night of May 5th was the second of their lives. They had been settled inside man-made wombs, strapped, attached, strung. They had begun. I lay there and looked at the stars out my window and thought three years ago right now... he was alive.
What happened next was strange. I wasn't flooded with the memory of how he looked that night, battered and swollen. Or with the conditions of his aliveness, or the nightmare of it. I was flooded with the way you feel when you're twelve years old and waiting at the top of the stairs on Christmas morning.
He was alive!
Happiness, as if it had all been something else. Unreasonable, irrational happiness. My brain said But he was in pain and he died and my heart said Oh shut up for once and my brain said You're not supposed to ever say SHUT UP to anybody. It's the rudest, most hateful thing you can ever say and my heart said You said HATE and that's WAY WORSE than SHUT UP and besides, you really do need to stuff it. I'm tired of all your buts and all your death and purpleness and misery. He was here! He was here and I don't care what you say. He was a magical creature and knowing him was glorious and worth all the hurt.
My brain walked away shaking its head and my heart found a field of sun-drenched daisies and spun around giggling with its arms in the air. At some point late last night, that he was ever here at all made me feel like the most blessed mother that's ever drawn breath.