The New Year's Shooting Stars

from Aleah Chapin's Aunties Project

Recently I have learned of the deaths of 2 separate friends' young sons, 7 and 8 respectively. Both out of nowhere. Both all of a sudden. I keep reading the obituaries over and over, trying to make sense of what actually happened, for I don't really know many details. And even harder still, I try to imagine the scale of loss for the parent. But it is, of course, unimaginable. I wake at night, feverish and parched, heart racing, mind spinning: this could happen to me. This could happen to me. And what if?

Life with my daughter speeds by. Moments fragile and extraordinary burst forth unexpected and brilliant and are as quickly eclipsed by other moments equally exhausting and banal in a life now revolving around cooking, cleaning, getting dressed, getting undressed, washing, wiping, folding. And still, my daughter, My daughter! can seem like a foreign phrase to my tongue. It is always amazing and I never stop pulling her close (while I can!) to kiss her cheek, neck, and tummy, until she wriggles away. Even if it is to ask for the same thing the millionth time that I will yet again have to decline her, the sound of an erupting Mommy!, makes me prideful, makes me dizzy, and also still makes me wonder if that is really me, if that is really who I am now.

She speaks. Doggy, horsey, bubbles, agua, mommy, daddy, shoes, apple, applesauce, bottle, yes, no, no, no! Her word for swing is wee. Her word for cat is neow. Every exploration, every science experiment, every test of physics, is a task jubilantly launched. I chase after her. As she keeps slipping away. And yet, I continue to let her try on and try out this dangerous world full of sharp corners, steep cliffs, and bottomless seas. For that is what life is, life to a child in particular, and were that we were as in love with the senses and the tactility and hum of the world that we thrust ourselves out there as brave and intrepid as they did, vibrating and rippling all the way. How ever does a parent give this to their child and protect them at the same time and forgive themselves for even the minor cuts and scrapes and bruises and missteps?

The new year began and we entered holding hands, jumping up and down, and ringing our noisemakers. She had no idea what all the fuss was about, but she gleefully participated. At the same holiday time, two mothers I know have lost their children. Two sets of parents mourn in utter shockgriefpainlossandconfusion. I don't know how to accept it. My tongue sits numb and thick in my mouth, my stomach sour and cramping. This could happen to any of us. It is a thought that cannot be completed. These shooting stars, remembered for their brightness, their brevity, their spectacular marks against the deep, dark sky, are gone.