Thirteen years ago today, we threw a first birthday party for our blond, apple-cheeked boy. Three months later to the day, he would be dead, from a virulent and rare form of strep. One day he was sitting in my lap with a book, clapping his hands when we came to his favorite page, and within 48 hours he was gone.
Thirteen years sounds like a long time. It’s not.
The experts say losing a child is one of the most wretched things to experience. It topples the natural order of things—your children should bury you, not the other way around. It’s completely upending.
Worse, it mixes an odd cocktail that you are forced to hold to your lips and shoot—something like one part of furious anger and one part defeated vulnerability. You gradually learn to stomach it, to cocoon it someplace inside, because it’s dangerous and scary to walk around like that. But grief is not linear. Sometimes, cyclically, you can taste it rising in your throat again, like bile.
Birthdays are one of those times. A child’s birthday—without the cake, the candles, the presents, the child—is an empty day. We sit around now and look at each other blankly.
“What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know,” I hear. “What do you want to do?”
It strikes me that, if our boy were here, he’d hardly recognize us. He has a little sister now, born a year and three days after his death. His older brother, who used to tower over only him, towers over us now, too. His parents live in two different houses. And the patient black Lab who tolerated a toddler’s straddling her like a bronco is gone, too, replaced by a trio of small, silly dogs and another Lab who doesn’t tolerate much.
The life he might recall ended when his did. I wonder what he’d think of that… and, in an odd way, I think he’d be okay with it. As the second son, the one who grabbed a nap in his car seat while I drove his brother to and fro—preschool, play dates—he was used to accommodating.
The night of the January 5, 1996, the snowy evening before we buried him, I shut the door to my office and thought hard about my boy. I thought about the cards that had come those past few days, the flowers, the hugs, the number of times I’d heard the cluck of the tongue and the words that went something like, “Such a shame. Such a life unfulfilled.”
They meant to soothe, but they stung. So I wrote this, below, in part to counter the unbearable thought that his life was, in any small way, lacking. From his perspective, I decided, it was very full. To the brim.
Someone—I don’t remember who—read this at the church the next day. And here, today, almost 13 years later, with that odd familiar taste in my mouth, I still have to believe it’s true.
* * *
January 5, 1996
To those of you who grieve because our Colin’s life was taken from him quickly and much too soon, I share your sorrow. We all grieve for a life seemingly unfulfilled.
But though brief, Colin’s life was indeed very full. And knowing that he lived his short life fully can give us all comfort during some very difficult days.
As a newborn, Colin was full of mother’s milk, which made his cheeks and belly grow round and his eyes shine.
Never happy to be set down for very long, he was full of yearning for the people closest to him, and he wanted to feel them holding him as often as he could.
As an older baby, Colin was full of curiosity for his big brother, reaching for his toys and projects, and reaching for hugs and kisses as only Evan can give.
He was full of affection for our dog Syd, and received much enthusiastic affection in return, as only a Lab can give.
As a toddler, Colin was full of lots of things; full to the brim.
Loving animals, music, toy cars and balls, he was showered with attention and full of wonder on his first birthday and during this past Christmas season. He especially loved books, and he was full of the joy of reading his favorites again and again.
He was full of excitement to see the people that mattered most to him: his Daddy coming in the door at night, his small friends and their older brothers and sisters, his family arriving for a visit.
And he was full of delight for smaller things, too: the guinea pig at his brother’s school, his first lollipop in his Christmas stocking, crayons and paint and paper to use them on. He was full of generosity; always ready to share any of these treasures.
Full of geniality, he was ready with a wide smile for family and friends and those who saw him only in the front seat of a grocery cart.
Colin was full of humor, waving bye-bye to me as he slipped down off the bed in the morning, padding down the hallway, and bursting open the bathroom door on Daddy; playing peek-a-boo around corners and in cupboards.
And sometimes, Colin was full of mischief. Stepping with his shoes on into Syd’s water bowl; scaling a flight of stairs before I knew he had left the kitchen, and working faster as I chased him.
Most of all, Colin was full of love. Full of the love poured into him by his parents, his brother, his grandparents, his aunts, his uncles, his cousins, and many special friends.
Every day for me, Colin was the sunshine, symbolized by the sunflowers present here today. With his blond hair, blue eyes and gentle ways, he was to me more beautiful than I could ever dream. Sometimes I worried about the heartache such a gentle soul would have to endure in this world. My angel is at peace.
We can grieve for Colin, today and for many days to come. But I ask you all to remember him, and talk about him, and to keep his light alive.
Remember Colin’s life not as one unfulfilled, but one that was filled to the top, and indeed overflowing.
Photo credit: Andrea Hart
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Ann, even though I never knew Colin, I always think of you and your baby boy when I plant sunflowers seeds into the earth every spring. Thank you for sharing a part of Colin’s life with us on his birthday. I will carry his story in my heart.
Love, Susan
Wow! I read it, I cried. I read everyone’s comments, I cried more. Thank you for sharing such a beautiful and moving story. And thank you for the reminder of just how precious every moment is. I will give my lil’ ones an extra hug in the morning, and forget all about the hysterical craziness that went on earlier this evening.
Wow! I read it, I cried. I read everyone’s comments, I cried more. Thank you for sharing such a beautiful and moving story. And thank you for the reminder of just how precious every moment is. I will give my lil’ ones an extra hug in the morning, and forget all about the hysterical craziness that went on earlier this evening.
Ann,
Thank you for sharing the inside of your heart. Your words will live in my heart for a while…taking me to this moment which begins in such a familiar way and ends with the unimaginable.
“One day he was sitting in my lap with a book, clapping his hands when we came to his favorite page, and within 48 hours he was gone.”
As I wonder sometimes how I am going to get through another moment with these 2 teenage strangers who have replaced my own adorable little boys, I will think of Colin for perspective. Thank you.
Marianne
Ann,
Thank you for sharing the inside of your heart. Your words will live in my heart for a while…taking me to this moment which begins in such a familiar way and ends with the unimaginable.
“One day he was sitting in my lap with a book, clapping his hands when we came to his favorite page, and within 48 hours he was gone.”
As I wonder sometimes how I am going to get through another moment with these 2 teenage strangers who have replaced my own adorable little boys, I will think of Colin for perspective. Thank you.
Marianne
Thank you for being so generous and sharing this with the world. As the father of a one year old boy, your story makes it so much more apparent the amazing life he’s experiencing already and how lucky I am to be a part of it. Colin and his story is certainly reminding many of us to live each day fully in celebration of the gift that life is. God Bless his soul. It’s shining brightly today.
Thank you for being so generous and sharing this with the world. As the father of a one year old boy, your story makes it so much more apparent the amazing life he’s experiencing already and how lucky I am to be a part of it. Colin and his story is certainly reminding many of us to live each day fully in celebration of the gift that life is. God Bless his soul. It’s shining brightly today.
Hi Ann,
I am not sure if I can find the right words, but I will try….
I am so so sorry for your loss. He was ONE lucky boy! I do believe that the people we love never leave us ,and one day we will definitely be together in spirit.
Wishing you lots of courage and peace. Thank you for opening your heart to us.
Hi Ann,
I am not sure if I can find the right words, but I will try….
I am so so sorry for your loss. He was ONE lucky boy! I do believe that the people we love never leave us ,and one day we will definitely be together in spirit.
Wishing you lots of courage and peace. Thank you for opening your heart to us.
Happy birthday, beautiful boy. The world loved you, and you loved the world.
Happy birthday, beautiful boy. The world loved you, and you loved the world.
Do not think that there has ever been an October 4th gone by that I havent thought about your beautiful boy-The image of him bursting out of the kitchen cabinet makes my heart ache and soar-all at the same time…Thank you for sharing his birthday with us all
Love Sarah
Do not think that there has ever been an October 4th gone by that I havent thought about your beautiful boy-The image of him bursting out of the kitchen cabinet makes my heart ache and soar-all at the same time…Thank you for sharing his birthday with us all
Love Sarah
Today I’m leaving work early and hugging my children extra tight. I’ll not say a word to them, though. The lump in my throat will prevent me from speaking.
Today I’m leaving work early and hugging my children extra tight. I’ll not say a word to them, though. The lump in my throat will prevent me from speaking.
Ann,
Thank you for celebrating Colin’s life with us.
Love,
CB
Ann,
Thank you for celebrating Colin’s life with us.
Love,
CB
Wow. What a wonderful way to share the joy of your son’s life…and the pain of losing him. I’m consumed by tears at the thought…I have a little son so like how you describe Colin. The thought of losing him completely overwhelms me. You are such a strong person to share this.
Wow. What a wonderful way to share the joy of your son’s life…and the pain of losing him. I’m consumed by tears at the thought…I have a little son so like how you describe Colin. The thought of losing him completely overwhelms me. You are such a strong person to share this.
Ann, I remember your photo of Colin coming out of the cupboard and have often reflected on that as my own children have done the same playing hide and seek. I also have seen you carry Colin with you in your strength and love of life. We haven’t seen each other in many years, but I can see you in your writing and in your reflections on life. Happy Belated, Colin.
Ann, I remember your photo of Colin coming out of the cupboard and have often reflected on that as my own children have done the same playing hide and seek. I also have seen you carry Colin with you in your strength and love of life. We haven’t seen each other in many years, but I can see you in your writing and in your reflections on life. Happy Belated, Colin.
So very, very beautiful, Ann!
Thank you for sharing a very difficult story and time in your life.
You have written such a wonderful tribute to the beautiful life of your precious Colin.
So very, very beautiful, Ann!
Thank you for sharing a very difficult story and time in your life.
You have written such a wonderful tribute to the beautiful life of your precious Colin.
I have a five year-old named Colin. When I read the dedication in your book, and then read this tribute, I did what any parent would do shortly thereafter: I went home and hugged my son tight. I’m sorry for your loss, but I’m thankful that you shared this.