In all of the 12 previous times when I wrote about David’s Death Day Anniversaries, I have never thought about or made mental notes for the contents before I open my lap top and started writing.  Many times I wrote and then edited fiercely before posting, but that was all.

This year is different.

Every year is different. This year is different in an unexpected way.

First off, last night I dreamed of Jimmy Brennan, a high school friend who I had a crush on while we were both doing variety shows at school.  He was not a close friend; however, we had some wonderful talks together.  We lost touch but beginning in my 30’s, I would have dreams in which Jimmy appeared just before some notable change happened in my life.  The dreams were never noteworthy, rather something ordinary, visiting a place I knew, walking through rooms, ordering in restaurant. And Jimmy would make an appearance. Again, nothing noteworthy.  He would stop by a table at the restaurant and chat, he would be sitting in some living room I walked through.  It took years to notice and put it together but eventually, I noticed that these appearances presaged some change. Always, the dream came before I knew what the change was but there was always a change. I came to view Jimmy Brennan, in his charming high school form, as my personal John the Baptist.

But with David’s death, I lost dreaming and although these days, I dream on occasion, I have not, until last night dreamed a dream with Jimmy in it.

Last night, he waltzed through a dream that included counting.  I don’t remember more.  And so, now I am on the look out for change.

I am in an awful mood today. Traffic and the length of time it takes to get from place to place are the main culprits.  I am on the road every day, taking Julia to Elliot House and her activities and myself to what I want to do.  This morning my grumpiness counted the minutes that were wasted concentrating behind the wheel, even as I listened to Star War themes to help Julia’s day begin right and after drop off to very loud renditions of Carley Simmon tunes.  And it has taken more than an hour before I can be sitting tapping away in a pleasant space.  And I note that the pleasant space, the Fogg Art Museum at Harvard, which pleases me, begrudgingly greatly, was not my idea but that of my VNM. 

But I need to back up.  I began by saying that I had never considered what I wrote on Death Day Anniversaries before this year.  And this year I have been thinking of today’s writing since the Spring.  Nothing concrete, no written notes but I wondered what I would be moved to say and imagined beginnings.  None of which I am using here.

And this year’s Death Day is certainly different.  Different because of two people.

First, my darling Wilbur.  Son, grandson, nephew.  Crazy straight hair that stands up.  Wiggly in body with arms waving and reaching. Moving almost all the time. Smiling and laughing a lot. Does a few crawls, but last time I saw him, he was not quite crawling. His latest accomplishment is the successful use of a straw and when it does it, he is utterly pleased with this great leap forward. 

His name is Wilbur David. Much like David and I did 38 years ago, Cheshire and Justin were not completely sure about what they would call him when he was born; however, they didn’t go home from the hospital like we did without a birth certificate. They did, however, pause and ponder before making the commitment and the announcement. I was surprised when they announced the new baby’s name.  Cheshire said she had told me that ‘David’ would be a middle name.  I think I thought they were thinking about it, not that it was set.  Which ever memory is true, it was sweet to remember David in this dear little boy’s new life.

In response to my last posting, a dear friend wrote that Wilbur’s eyebrows reminded her somewhat of David’s. Thank you, Caffa!  I had not seen that and now that I clearly can, and I am quite happy. Aware that I rarely see any relative in any young person and after it being pointed out, I always wonder if this is a failing of mine?  It could be that instead of single traits, what I see is the totally of a person, fully formed and completely themselves. No, probably it is just a failing of mine.

Inez Cheshire is what comes before her family names.  Inez belonged to David’s mother who died 6 years before Cheshire was born. Giving her ‘Inez’ kept the original Inez in our present and we tried to tell stories about her, remind Cheshire of her, all of those things parents do when their child is a namesake. I don’t know how well we succeeded. 

I am aware, today in particular, that for David to be alive or to be remembered by Wilbur David, we will have to tell stories and do all of those things families do when their child is a namesake.  We will.

An idea of the moment: during future Death Day observances, we will celebrate Wilbur as a name sake, as if it is his saint’s day. 

Slowly the celebration changes.

My other change agent this past year is my VNM, known also as Ed.  He needed to somewhat insist on accompanying me today in all my radiant grumpiness and he brought me here to the Fog, to sit and write while he wanders the galleries. He is responsible for changing the nature of my days, even today when being alive is still somewhat difficult. 

Julia asked me recently. Quite bluntly. If Ed was replacing her Daddy. I told her, no.  Her Daddy could never be replaced but our lives could be added to.  Made better.  And as she likes Ed, she accepted that answer without completely understanding.  

I am glad she accepted that because I would be hard pressed to explain the duality of missing someone, losing a life together of many years, what I have called the best part of my life and still finding joy and a measure of contentment with another, quite different, person. The hole in my heart left by David’s departure remains. It is woven into the fabric of my soul and this year, today, I find that something new can be added to my life, our lives.

On Facebook someone posted this: “Grief is the unravelling of everything we are and everything we know . . . when we begin to put ourselves back together again the pieces don’t quite fit. We are forever changed and if you look for us as we were you will not find us.”

I’ve lost friends during the unraveling, friends who will probably never return. Did they look for me as I had been and been greatly disappointed?  Perhaps the unravelling can be a gentle reason for those departures. And for myself, I have grieved the person I lost and also who I was before all the pieces didn’t quite fit.  Today, however, I turn my face to the sun. I cannot feel the shame of not being the person I once was. I am closer to claiming the present for what it is and what I have brought into my life.