A few days ago, I forced myself to do something which I rather dislike. Not because the task was unpleasant, which it was in the sense that all things associated with death are, but because I was terrified of that look I would see in my father’s eyes. That look of mortality, of fleeting time, of disbelief, of instant heartache. For a friend of my dad’s had passed away quite unexpectedly and being the good daughter that I am, I bought a bottle of whiskey and drove over the mountain pass to commemorate at his house.

Once I arrived there however, my solidarity faltered as I remembered that summer day not too many years ago, when I had spontaneously driven over that same mountain pass and up my Dad’s gravel driveway and into a memory of sadness and shame. As I pulled up to a stop & jumped careless out of my car as only a young girl can do, my Dad lurched forward out of his office and onto the porch in a way which immediately told me something was wrong. At first I thought he was in the throws of a heart attack but as he choked out the words as I rushed towards him, I understood that it was my Uncle Brian he was talking about, not himself. And in that moment I experienced my first sense of shame, because I was grateful it wasn’t him. Whether it was right or wrong, that emotion was the first thing I remember about my Uncle Brian’s death. And as a world wholly new and painfully sharp sprang up around us that day, that day of sudden and young death, my first thoughts were still, at least it wasn’t you Dad. Thank God it wasn’t you.

And that is why it took me a few hours after arriving to finally go see him and to bring him his bottle of whiskey to be washed down with my few paltry words of condolences. I knew that same look was coming and I also knew that I once again would feel that guilty sense of gratitude that it wasn’t him. For the thought of a world without my Dad breaks my heart, it’s something that I fear I simply could not bear. So when I look my Father in the eyes, his grief makes me sad, sad because his friend was a good man and the world is a little less bright without him, sad because his own mortality is something I cannot stop. Yet he is still here, we still have time, and for that, yes I am unshamefully grateful.

I’ve long held the belief that everybody has at least one physical trait that others find beautiful.  It could be the eyes, a finely turned ankle or a dazzlingly white smile, but there is always something.  For me, it seems to be my hair.  Long, thicker than a horse’s tail, and honey colored; I’ve always been a bit partial towards it.  It’s embarrassingly easy to maintain and I suspect that my husband even married me because of it’s golden hue~after all, what true-blooded Latino could ever resist a blond?  All in all, I have been truly blessed by the hair gods.  However I realize now that it really was never created for my benefit  but rather for my son London’s; for my hair has become his nest, chew toy, blanket, teething ring and worry doll.  Not a day or night goes by when he doesn’t burrow himself down in it, entangled in it’s golden tresses, and sooth himself to sleep.  This process however, is not as gentle as it sounds, and my scalp as well as any loose strands are ripped and pulled in a most unpleasant way.  In the dark of the night, when a violent tug has awoken me from a deep sleep, I often wish I could find a silky haired, lactating doll which I could easy switch places with.  

Yet as my baby sister so graciously reminded me, this time is fleeting and it won’t be long before he’s 18 years old and I would give anything to have him small again, wrapped up in my arms, contentedly chomping on my split ends.  So I’ll endure the nesting, the aching head and frazzled morning hair for now because I know that she is right.  

Last sunday, we took London for his 1st winter hike.  It was cold & misty which is to be expected in the Cascade foothills of Washington but the sun wavered just so, peeking sporadically through the clouds, that it promised to be a beautiful day.  I packed London’s snacks, extra diapers, a camera or two since inevitably one of them will loose power the moment I attempt to take a photo; and hoped that he would stay awake long enough to see the waterfall.  

He did and as we scrambled down the trail, towards its base and felt the spray from the cascading water on our faces, I realized that that was London’s first waterfall.  It was the first time in his nine months of life that he had witnessed one of nature’s pristine moments, that he wouldn’t get another first waterfall, and that I had picked well, for it was beautiful.

I know that he will never remember that day, that all the memories we are making together right now, at this moment, will be lost  somewhere in his subconscious by the time he is ten.  Yet I suppose the memories really are for me anyway.  What we are doing, is what all good parents do, what my parents did with me, and that is building a foundation upon which his memories will grow; turning into something which both he and I will remember.  

  I read that he had been cremated and that the toxicology reports were damning.  His death was so definite, so absolute on paper.

   Yet here he was, singing & dancing across my TV screen.  He was so alive, so effervescent & tangible that I found it hard to believe he no longer existed.  This life force in front of me had been condensed down into a box of ashes-to be scattered in the winds or set somewhere cool and quiet, I didn’t know.  And though the part of him I knew was artificial, sent thru the wires in a collection of pixilated images, I felt the sadness of his loss nonetheless.  I can watch him over & over, thru rewind and fast forward, yet the nostalgia slowly drifts in, like dust on the screen.  For now I know that his face  is a testament to something and someone which no longer exists and never will again.

Our siblings make us who we are.  They mold us & shape us and ultimately, help to create the person we become.  Being the oldest of six for instance, I suppose it was inevitable that I become the responsible one, the leader, the example.  Whereas my brother, number two in the lineup, diverged wildly from me, running in nearly the opposite direction seeking adventure impulsively & spiritedly through bad girls and fast cars.  Each successive one of us  has fallen somewhere between these two pillars of character definition, settling into the role that we, as siblings, had carved out for each other.

I don’t know for sure who I am or what I represent to each of my brothers & sisters, but I do know that who they are to me, individually and collectively, are five people who know me better then most on this earth.  Armed with that knowledge, there are things they have come to expect from me, from a lifetime of playing my role within our family drama.

Often I wish I could break away from their expectations of me; to not be the straight & narrow one, to do something uncharacteristic, something outside of what they have defined for me.  Yet then I realize, it is me & my self image that needs redefining.  Just because I’ve grown accustomed to the role I’ve played should not mean that it doesn’t need or deserve revisions.  I am the oldest, the leader after all, and who better to change the course of my own play than me?

More whole & perfectly put together than I ever could have imagined, you are no more an abstract thought, a face yet unseen, a shadow of us.  You are here, you exist and there we stand in awe.

Like an echo sent off into the distance, made with familiar sounds & textures, I recognize parts of us in you.  Yet like an echo, which in the journeying back to one’s ears evolves and becomes its own sound, you are entirely you.

In the one short month I’ve been blessed to look upon your darling face I’ve seen expressions cross it that remind me of Edgar and others that make me laugh out loud in their simplicity and newness.  You create a constant cacophony of sounds similar to my brother Drew and your thick, dark hair is inherited from my Mother.   The genetic echo expands even wider, right down to your long, Norwegian toes, compliments of my paternal great-grandfather Clayton.

And as you grow & grow & grow, already so much in four quick weeks, the person you are & who you will be is taking shape before our eyes and we can only imagine the places you will go.  For you are our echo into the future.  Parts of each of us, Edgar & I and those around us & before us, will continue on through you, in one way or another, reverberating around this world long after we are gone.

On a recent sojourn into the depths of my giant magazine pile, I came across an interesting article about the merits of quietude.  In a world literally buzzing with noise, it is hard to notice those subtle little sounds which make life sweeter and bind us not only to nature and the environment around us, but also to each other.  So this week, I’ve attempted to tone down the daily cacophony of sound which surrounds me in an effort to enjoy those everyday noises we nearly always overlook.

There’s the sound of my ordinarily ornery & cantankerous cat, snoring ever so sweetly in front of the fireplace.  Or that sweet sound of my car engine turning over, which as anyone who’s ever owned a vehicle that didn’t readily do this can attest too, a running car is a sweet sound indeed.  The distant wail of a southbound train, the steady heartbeat of a loved one, the AM chirpings of a springtime robin….these are all the little noises, those almost imperceptible sounds which can sneak by us daily.  So I for one, am turning things down, so that I always may be able to hear and be calmed by the natural soundtrack of life.

A few months ago, I ran into an old middle school teacher of mine.  Mrs. Hall was one of those rare teachers, who, though she wasn’t a favorite and was actually often quite strict, she still garnered the respect of most of us thirteen year olds simply because she always demanded the best of us.  When a student did not live up to her expectations, one could see it on her face and that look of disappointment, however fleeting, was worse than the low grade which inevitably followed it.

As I stood before her that day, making small talk, the years faded away and I was once again in that public school classroom, under her fixed stare and hoping that the promise I had represented as a youth had materialized before her.  Was I what she thought I would become? Did I validate her life’s work or make her wish she’d picked another profession?  Was I where she thought I’d be, all these years later or did she see, as I often did, that I was merely treading water at times in the simple hope of trying to stay afloat?

Whatever she saw or didn’t see that day, she kept it to herself and I am left wondering if who I was and who I had hoped to be, is still the larger part of the me today or if that youthful & determined spirit has been overshadowed by the years and the daily, tiny struggles of a somewhat ordinary life?