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Every year on July 22, I write to honor George, and I make the writing public. Every year Nova and I do something to remember him, like have grilled cheese and Sapporo beer, or have a special outing, or make art and bike and snuggle and dance. Every year feels beautiful and hard. Every year I am filled with gratitude and dread. There will never be a way to honor him enough. He has reached a place of infinite wonder and oneness and not my words, nor my actions, nor my thoughts, carry the right translation. The only thing that comes close are my tears. And when I look into the eyes of that girl of ours. Last night, on July 21, I sat across from Nova at dinner and thought about the dinner I’d had with George 8 years ago, our last dinner together. We’d gone out for burgers and we’d talked about the work he had left on his plate that night, how it would be a late night, but by this time tomorrow he’d be on paternity leave. This time tomorrow. It was a fantasy. And I wondered how it is that we choose to commemorate the day that someone leaves us instead of the day we last spent with them. I’d rather remember the happy day, the day of innocence and contentment. Maybe it would feel less dreadful. Maybe it would feel more luminous to celebrate his last day on Earth than the one that mysteriously landed him in the ER, with all of the heartache that ensued. This of course is a selfish idea, for George’s experience was vastly different from mine. Perhaps for him, returning to the infinite is all the reason to celebrate. Perhaps what we are honoring is not his life on Earth, but his transcendence. Then I looked at Nova, and said, “8 years ago today was the last day I spent with your dad.” And when I said that, while looking at this beautiful creature of ours, a new truth emerged. “They have been the best 8 years of my life.” She looked at me, and I looked at her, and we smiled a knowing smile. And in that spontaneous moment we glimpsed perfection in our nonconforming little family. There would be no Nova without George, and there would be no George without Nova. It is as though his dying made way for her living. And her living transforms his dying into enormous waves of awe and gratitude, and the physical manifestation of love. She is our love in motion. She is his spirit, animated in space and time. Her life honors him, and it is more than enough. 8 years ago, Nova and I became a team. 8 years ago, George empowered me to become a single mother, gifted Nova the virtues of courage and resilience, and set us out to create something beautiful out of something hard. They have been the most amazing, crushing, inspiring, heartbreaking, heart-opening, transformative years. They have been the best 8 years of my life.   “Tomorrow is a special day”, I say.
“What day is it?” she asks. “It’s the day that George became spirit.” “Oh yeah!” she flashes her big smile at me, and remembers. “July 22. That means it’s my birthday in 9 days.” A fact she will never forget. “It really is a special day,” she declares. “What are we going to do for him?” We begin to list off the possibilities.
I woke this morning to Nova, climbing into my arms to snuggle, as she does most mornings. Tony stirred soon after, and we lay there, the three of us together, resting contentedly with our arms intertwined.
“Are you awake?” I asked Nova. “Yes, I’m awake,” she replied, her crisp yet delicate five-year old voice slicing through the morning air. I kissed her head, squeezed her a little tighter. One at a time, we rose from the bed. Tony headed downstairs to make breakfast and coffee, as he does most mornings. Nova picked out a dress her daddy might like. “He liked red, didn’t he mama?” “Oh yes, he loved all the colors.”  One year ago this January 1, from the mountains of Colorado, I made the decision to move to Denver. What began as our annual family Christmas vacation resulted in a major life transformation -- easily one of the most dramatic decisions I’ve ever made -- landing me, my 2-year old daughter, and a trailer full of boxes in the place we now call home. I couldn’t have known then, that Nova would get a spot at our neighborhood’s full-time preschool in the fall. I couldn’t have known that this would afford me the opportunity to resume school and finish my degree in Chinese medicine and acupuncture. I couldn’t have known that I would fall in love with a man and experience the depth of connection* that had vanished from my life years ago. I knew only that there was a home waiting for us in Denver, and that despite the 18 years of roots laid in the Bay Area, it was time for me to move forward, plant new roots, begin again.  One hour ago, my entire life changed. I took my girl to school, and came home alone. From this day forward we will live by the school year, and the school bell, and for the first time since her birth we will begin leading separate lives. I will not know what happens in her day. She will not know what happens in mine.
This feels monumental. I am shaking with exhilaration, a heart full of gratitude and pride, a mind in disbelief that this day has finally come. I no longer have a baby. I have a heart-strong, tough-minded, independent child who barely looked up from her artwork when I left her at school today, a girl whose joyful spirit would never lead you to believe that her first years were steeped in heartbreak. Somehow, we made it through. We made something beautiful out of something tragic. As I take in my surroundings at the kitchen table this morning, gazing through our living room to the park outside, the sun streaming through the windows, soon to disappear beneath the shadow of the moon, I am struck by the multitude of turns my life has taken since George left our earth. Little by little, the decisions I’ve made for my family have culminated in this moment, in this home, in this new beginning that is no longer filled with hope, but with certainty. I am where I want to be. We win. |
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