Erin’s birthday is Thursday. I have felt like I needed to dig deep and call up my fondest memories of my girl. It’s the fourth birthday without her. I suppress and compartmentalize thoughts of her. I call them forth when I need to feel her presence. I embrace her in a rush of song lyrics that were her favorite Disney tunes. I tried to watch “Tangled” Sunday afternoon to bring her close in honor of her birthday week. Rob asked, “Why are you doing this to yourself?” I turned it off. It made me feel incredibly sad. I thought I needed to plan how I could celebrate her 22nd birthday in a purposeful way. I thought I would go look at cakes and gifts she would have enjoyed. That worked well on the first few years without Erin. As time goes on, I fear the fine-tuned details of her will begin to fade.
I am a last minute shopper. I used to go to Walmart at Zion Crossroads a day or two before Erin’s birthday. It wasn’t so important for the gifts to be perfect. She always wanted the same things…soft Disney blankets, disco balls, coloring books, markers, something purple, something princess, chocolate cake…predictable and perfect. I miss that. I thought maybe I would stroll through the princess blanket aisle and run my fingers across the fluffy overstuffed neon-colored pillows like the ones thrown on Erin’s bed in her pink room. We moved to Farmville four months after Erin died. Though we had passed most of her clothes, shoes, and coats on to a family of girls who needed them, we weren’t ready to discard the pink presence in our home. So, we let one of the guest rooms be pink, with Erin’s covers and carefully chosen items we wanted to keep of hers stored in the dresser drawers and closet. We added accents that were not hers and used the space to store the port-a-crib and high chair for our young grandson. It seemed ok to let the pink linger. I don’t go in there often, but once in awhile I go in and just look around…and let myself remember.
The beautiful urn with her ashes resides in that room, except when family comes to visit. It is painted with sea oats swaying in front of soft blue hues of ocean water. I imagine the scene depicting the calmer periods of a day, such as early morning or dusk, just after the sun has gone down. The shadows cover the sand and darken the wispy oats highlighting Erin’s name and dates of her lifespan. We intended to spread its contents over the ocean from the pier at Ocean Isle a few summers ago…and then we didn’t. Now, Rob packs up the urn each summer with a few key items of Erin’s, including her red sunglasses, pink flip flops, and her pink beach hat, along with a small picture of Erin to sit on a corner table in the main room of the beach house…a place full of laughter with all of our family. And, in the midst of making new memories, if even for a moment, at some point during our stay, when we pass by the table, we pause…and remember.
There are those times others remember…a picture from long ago will surface on Facebook or from a photo gallery on phones of friends. Those times we wake up to a new day with a text, a quick memory shared, and an Erin grin. We share it with each other, snicker at her funny expression, feel eternally grateful for people who shared their lives with her and with us, and save the moment and the picture. Sometimes, memories are shared when we least expect them…the primary school teacher who shared she puts Erin’s school picture on the side of her file cabinet in her classroom each year and wrote to tell us and show us the picture as she was unpacking her classroom for a new school year. Or, seeing Erin’s laughing face in a picture on a memory table beside a small white candle burning among other family members’ pictures who have also passed away at my nephew’s wedding last month. Unexpectedly seeing her joyful face evoked a subtle tearful response that touched my heart with such warmth, as I remembered how excited Erin always was to gather with cousins, aunts, and uncles calling them out by name in the car ride one by one as she prepared to meet them.
So, when I worry that memories might fade or that I might linger less in the pink room…just when I think I might get caught up in making new memories reading to my grandson, Cooper, who tries to read “The Three Billy Goats Gruff” right along with me with the same voice inflection I use for each character but can’t get all the words out fast enough…When I chuckle at the deep reflection of his brother, Wyatt, as he tells his third-base coach at an early Saturday morning tee ball game that his legs just don’t wake up that early as he pauses on the base….If I get distracted and am drawn into watching my three boys in the kitchen of Dylan’s family’s new house late on a Friday evening laughing and telling stories while leaning against the counter as we gather for a weekend…If I post a picture on Facebook of just Diana-without Erin-and wonder for a fleeting moment if that is ok or not to do it-even though the picture is about Longwood LIFE and friends in Farmville-in a place and capturing experiences Erin is not a part of…to celebrate our daily lives with Diana in the here and now with her delightful laugh and insightful perspectives….Living in the present and looking into the lives of those I love in the here and now does not mean I am losing sight of Erin or my memories of her.
She slips into my thoughts when I am swimming at the Y, and I think of our days at Mee-Maw and Pap-Pap’s pool on endless summer afternoons when she wouldn’t get out of the pool until we started the car in the driveway to go home. She slips into my heart while I walk around my neighborhood each day as I look at the sky at all times of day and in the evenings. I feel her close to me as I see the sunrise, watch clouds moving across the sky, or walk quickly down particular streets that open up to fields where I can capture the best view of a full moon.
So, maybe this year on Erin’s birthday, I’ll do just what I do most Thursdays. I’ll drink coffee in the early morning and listen to a new tune I want to learn to play on guitar before going to the Y for a quick swim. I’ll put on my necklace and rub the heart between my fingers to be sure it’s on the right side before going to work at a place I love and where I find purpose. I’ll relax with family at home and talk with Rob and Diana as we stroll around the neighborhood and as thoughts of Erin come to mind. And, in the quiet of the late evening, I’ll put in my earbuds and listen to the songs that speak to my heart about her and what she means to me. It is at these times…I remember her most of all.
Times to remember are not meant to be intentional, I have decided. They are moments of recognition that Erin is still with us in our memories and in our hearts…times that mix in and out of our days and nights where she feels close…where we still know she loved us…where, as I remember, she knew she was loved by us.
And, the pink room will still be pink…
Until it isn’t.
Sorting it Out... 