Birthdays

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I dread my birthday now. I was never a big fan of adult birthday blowouts, but I would allow myself a fun weekend trip or some drinks with close friends. Now, though, I can only see it as the last celebration I had in what I consider the “before” era. Before I became a parent, and just as quickly, a bereaved parent. Before, and after – it’s visible in photos of me if you look closely at my smile. It was one of the last days I smiled with true happiness. 

Only 48 hours after my birthday, my daughter was born. Our birthdays are inextricably linked now, as I’m sure they would be too if she had lived. But she didn’t. It feels so smug and pointless to celebrate living another year, while only ashes remain of my sweet baby girl. 

Oh, Olivia. You’ll never progress past your one and only birthday, forever a newborn. You’ll never experience these milestones that I dreamed of, that you deserved. The smell of flowers. The wind on your face. When I try to picture what your life could have been, I see it spooling out ahead of me like a roll of undeveloped film, small, faraway images I can faintly make out, briefly catching the light before falling to the floor. 

I’m turning 38. You should be playing at the park with your cousins, learning to ride a bike. 

I’m turning 40. You should be starting first grade. 

I’m turning 50. You might have been falling in love, staying out late. 

I’m turning 60. Did you move away? Stay close to home? Get married young? Or stay single and travel? I’d love you no matter what path you chose.

I’ll never know what would have been. I have few specifics to guide my mourning – not your favorite food, not your favorite song.  But even more unfair is that you’ll never know. Everything that you’re missing. 

How can I ever complain about wrinkles and gray hair? I won’t. I know now that to age is a privilege, but it’s one I don’t feel I deserve. Certainly I don’t deserve it more than you. You were completely innocent, and I’m the one who fucked up. 

How can I accept congratulations on yet another birthday when I know it’s just dumb luck that I’ve made it this far? I can’t bring myself to raise a glass of champagne when all I can think of is how you should be here. With these anniversaries only hours apart, it’s impossible to ignore the juxtaposition. It’s really your birthday, but you’re not really turning four, you only “should be” turning four. 

Life goes on for me, but for you it never really started. What a loss of so much beautiful potential.