January 23- Gift of a Thousand Days

January 23^rd

Yes, I know what today is. Or, in five minutes, was. The day Sean died. Three years have passed. That’s 1,095 days. It's easy to lose track. Days breed like sneaky rabbits until your basket of bunnies becomes a warren worthy of Watership Down.

I don’t mark the anniversary of Sean’s death the way I used to.

I'd light a candle or drink a Guinness (Sean’s favorite beer) the first several months after it happened. It was a way to remember the day dividing our lives into ‘before’ and ‘after’ and a way , I thought, to honor his memory.

Those thousand days have changed us.

We have a new perimeter circumscribing Before and Now: it consists of our world trip, our anything-but-free introductory period to New Zealand, our return to the States and Kiwi Adventure, Take Two.  It’s like we’re in the calculus class I never took (and surely would’ve failed, having never attempted trigonometry) in high school – had I opted in, I might have learned what Archimedes taught – you can draw a circle, then build a multi-sided object with not just six or twelve sides, but an infinite number of sides – so many sides, you nearly fill the entire circle.

We are more than before and after. We are even more than after and after… We are, as Fiona and Finley like to say when trying to one-up the other, practically “Googolplex infinity.” We’re wandering spheres of possibility.

Which is a round-the-world way of saying we didn’t do anything special to commemorate the 1,095^th day since Sean’s death.

I thought about this today during my run alongside a six-lane highway on Oahu. Between counting the number of Toyotas on my way home (the route is flat, loud and boring and I needed something to do), I thought about ways Sean is present. I tell Fiona and Finley his spirit is still with us, yet my understanding of that phrase has evolved. More than a ghostly or celestial figure, I feel Sean’s spirit through thoughts, words and deeds he left behind: remembering how he bobbled his head like a dashboard doll for comic effect; wondering how Sean would handle Finley’s latest outburst ; crying during a moment of loneliness or nameless melancholy . Sean’s spirit lives because we do.  It lives because we continue sharing his stories; invoking his inflections; parroting his gestures.  He lives in brain memory, muscle memory and in the twilight between wakefulness and sleep.

Sean’s spirit lives in love, because he taught me how to live in relationship. It’s not something I claim as much finesse at or patience with as my late husband, but I know I’m a better partner because of his example.  Sean’s essence lives in small kindnesses I give friends, family and my partner. It’s the best kind of chain letter, this conferring of love.   

So on this extraordinarily ordinary day on Oahu, we walked Waikiki; ate sushi with Dad and his wife; played in a hotel pool and savored meals fit for a president (minus the kids) with friends. I ate too much ginger-crusted Onaga and drank too much Beaujolais.  I returned to our hotel room, happy and flushed. And only slightly guilty about enjoying a day such as this on January 23^rd.

When Sean’s birthday comes in June, we’ll eat cake, light candles and express thanks. ‘Til then, we’ll feel his spirit encircling our multi-sided, mercifully-expanding lives. That's more than ritual - it's reality. And part of the gift of one-thousand days.