4th of July
Last year we spent Independence Day at a friend’s house in Olympia, WA. He has a three-story house with a rooftop balcony giving a phenomenal view of the sound. Every 4th of July he has friends over to watch the mini-displays people shoot off from their yards visible throughout the city as well as the massive show put on by the capital. He’d mentioned earlier in the day that one of the people coming over was bringing her daughter who was about a year old. I said that was fine, and thought I’d be okay.
As night fell, my husband and I chatted with our friend while enjoying the fireworks lighting up around the city. My arms ached for Isabella, but that is part of losing a child and has not gone away yet. After about fifteen minutes, a group of friends arrived including the mother with her one-year-old. I surreptitiously watched her pointing out fireworks to her daughter, snuggling, and laughing when her daughter looked on in wonder. I lasted probably three minutes then lost it, ran downstairs, and cried in a bedroom for an hour. While our 4th of July plans likely would have been modest with a less than a month-old baby, it was the first holiday we had expected we’d celebrate with Isabella.
As I cried on the phone with my sister, the alarm on my phone went off, reminding me to take a picture of Isabella in her outfit to send to the gift-giver.
Last year was brutal. This year we are working on caulking trim around our house and will be joining some friends for a BBQ later. Life looks different than we expected, but my heart is not bleeding and raw. The babies we will see are familiar and loved, and we are one year closer to seeing Isabella again.
image from dhgate.com
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