Last month Ev turned 6. I haven’t posted those photos until now and it only recently hit me why. It’s the same reason my blog has sort of, trickled, where once it flowed. It’s hard, now.
In the days leading up to Ev’s birthday I frequently burst into tears. In the days since, I’ve felt a little numb. Sad, but numb. Not because I’m sad he’s older. That’s silly. And simple.
The week before Ev’s birthday it hit me, you see. That he was going to be 6. That every day after that he would be older than Rebecca ever would be. She died on her birthday. It’s poetic and wrong. She’s 3.5 months older than Ev. Supposed to be.
For me it’s tough to reconcile the happiness. It feels unkind to be happy, to flaunt it here. I know better, of course. I know it’s just life. That sometimes it is my family that will endure the hard times while my friends have what seems to be easy happiness. But still.
This will probably hit me like this again when Del turns 6 in two years. Inconceivable. Or maybe by then it will be softer.
Now I watch Ev grow. And tackle those moments when Del asks me, “When will Becca be alive again?”