XVI
They all share your darling half strawberry nose.
Hi, Mom.
I dropped my phone in the toilet this weekend, minutes before I had to give a work presentation to a room full of eager alumni. It didn’t stand a chance. James had run over it the day we left the hospital with Sander, along with his computer, our camera, and a myriad of other less expensive belongings (Long story. Sleep deprivation, grief, post-partum life created the perfect storm for careless behavior), and it is a miracle that it had survived that incident. But this spill in the toilet bowl sealed its fate. Arguably, I was due for a new one 18 months ago.
I emailed Kimmy and Dad to let them know that they should connect with us via James as I awaited a replacement. Kimmy reminded us of the vacation when Cousin Laura hurled Dad’s cell phone into a toilet. Dad was always an early tech adopter, so I envision the phone as one of those ginormous black boxes from the mid-90s. I remember him being none too pleased either.
I believe I backed up my phone. I’m almost positive I made the intentional effort to archive all of its contents, most notably the final text messages and voicemails I have saved from before your death. There’s a voicemail you left just ten days before you died. I’m always struck by how vibrant and enthusiastic and ALIVE your voice is, rambling on about impractical cashmere baby clothes you had purchased for your soon-to-be grandchild and stating over and over “Love you” at various intervals during your three minute message. It’s a cherished message, but a punch in the gut every time. How dramatically and unexpectedly things can change. That is all I want retrieved back from my phone. Your cheery voice and over-the-top affection.
This morning, James and the kids all biked to school/work/daycare, as has become possible and habit thanks to a year of life on Main Street, USA. As they pulled out of our driveway littered with colorful foliage from our line of maples, I reached instinctively for my phone. I wanted to capture Sunny confidently peddling up hill with her classic blue LLBean backpack bobbing along with her efforts. Courtland more cautiously and rigidly beginning her ride with the air of a recent two-wheeler, her bedazzled helmet glinting in the early morning light. And James, taking up the rear, with Sanderling merrily singing in the bike trailer, pink leopard print helmet atop his head, waving and shrieking “buh byeeeeeeee” as they happily rode off to their destinations.
Instead of watching this scene behind the filter of a screen, I stood on our front porch, in one of your Calida nightgowns, waving and smiling and tucking that happy sight into my memory stores to recall on a day when the sun may not shine as brightly or the children may not smile as widely. Life is indeed beautiful. Complicated and complex. And today I had no filter with which to mark the scene but my own time and memory. And for that, I am grateful.
143 Your Ashley