Dear lovely Gretchen,
It’s your birthday. The anniversary of your death is hard and I mark its passage with tears, but on the
anniversary of your birth, I weep inconsolably.
37 ways to remember you. I prepared the list on your birthday the first year after you died, and every
year I revisit it, the completion of each way of remembering keeping you close. This year the list
includes 40 things, honoring your birth in 1979. I could have stopped at 39, the way some women keep
themselves young by claiming to be 39 when they’re decades older. But it wasn’t hard, 40 things.
I miss you. You’re in my head when I shop in a thrift store or rummage in my closet. How would you
wear this scarf? What would you pair this necklace with? When I pick up your son from school, I
picture you in the circle of friends that gather by the school door. I think of you when it’s time to
purchase a gift, remembering how you styled the elegant package that enclosed the earrings I’d admired
in the store.
I prefer NPR, but sometimes I listen to the Christian station you liked. I listen to the swelling tunes, now
and then a phrase of soaring optimism entering my consciousness. Precious Lord, take my hand. I hope
He was there to greet you.
My tears obscure the page, but I can imagine that your hand is on my shoulder, even that your arms are
wrapped around me. I love you to the moon and back. Beyond the stars. Greater than the universe.
May your birthday be celebrated in heaven.
Last night I called my sister to say living is hard. God and Jesus, the Universe, dear sister, and dear
lovely Gretchen, be near me.
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