Michael's Birthday

Thirty-two years ago, my troublesome second son made his appearance in the world, much against his wishes. His birth was surrounded by unsettledness, and his life followed suit. Despite all the angst of his little life, despite his illness which arrived about as soon as he did, he was a happy sunny child with a zest for life and a penchant for making friends.

I miss my little rough and tumble son even after all these years. Normally, I try to find time to visit his grave and put fresh decorations there, but in all the hubbub of the past year, I wasn't able to take care of it this year. I know it means nothing to him, but it is important that he remain a part of my life. After all, he is still my son.

I thought of him all day. Often I find some way to commemorate his special day, but this year I am too tired and weary to do anything special. My only response was to pray longer for each of my living sons, their spouses or girlfriends, and their children.

Enough time has passed that the pain of his death is no longer sharp and hurtful. But there is a soft sadness when I think of him, and a joy to know that when I pass I will see him again. Still, I could not resist. At the end of the day, I asked Kiel if he knew what day it was.

He looked me straight in the eye and said, "Michael's birthday." (Kiel was only a few months old when Michael died). We looked at each other for a moment, remembering. Then I went to bed and Kiel went back to watching a movie. 'Nuff said.