Lessons from a Balloon-sending Mama

On your 29th birthday, I make my pilgrimage to the grave. Carl parks the Jeep and at your marker, I wipe away the brittle patch of cut dried grass. There's a strip of blue painter's tape stuck to the side. It's in Rachel's handwriting. We love you, Daniel. You've inspired so many people. I take a photo of your oldest sister's note and smile, sending a text to her so that she can see my appreciation.

I put a bunch of red Dollar Store Gerber daisies in the dirt by your marker. They aren't my favorite color Gerbers, but they were the best looking plastic flowers the store had. I take another photo of your grave and wish I could take a photo of you instead. I probably have the largest collection of grave marker photos that any mother has ever accumulated. They span my life over the last twenty-four years since you left us.

I walk over to Solomon's grave. When I found his marker years ago, I shed tears. From II Timothy 4:7 the words are enscribed: I have finished my course. I have kept the faith. If the day wasn't so hot, I would amble over the grass to visit Taylor's grave because his is one that also has touched my heart. We're so glad you came. Beside your grave is Audrey, who has only the year enscribed on her marker. And a large heart. I assume she, like Taylor, died the day she was born.

Under the shade of a tree, I sit on your Thomas the Tank Engine towel and pour into a cup orange-grapefruit seltzer water. The liquid is welcomed. I had planned to stay a longer time seated on the towel, coming up with something profound to write. But the afternoon is hot and humid. The dashboard of the Jeep, says it's 97 degrees F. Carl sits in the Jeep because it's cooler there.

I come to the cemetery with rituals that I have gathered over the years since you've been gone. One is to walk the premise. I have a pair of new tennis shoes on this afternoon. What better place and day to break them in. Briskly I make the round, and am grateful for a breeze. I remember when this location made me feel shame for not having been able to keep you alive. I never expected to have grown from my visits here. I never knew solace at my son's grave was possible. The years have been hard; the journey filled with sadness, but the lessons I have acquired are nothing short of priceless.

After my lap, I write a note to you on a slip of paper. It is my usual note about loving and missing you. On the back of it, Carl writes some words. I peek to see he has written. His words are: Too bad I never got to meet you. He has drawn a heart and signed his name. The love he shows for me by coming with me on this cemetery pilgrimage shouldn't be overlooked.

Inside the Jeep, together we string the note (I've punched a hole in the sheet with a pen) to another Dollar Store purchase----a red star balloon filled with helium.

And then we walk to the center of the cemetery as I hold tightly to the string. "Happy birthday, Daniel," we both say. I release the string which allows for the balloon to jet away from me and climb into the sky. We stand watching the wind do its part as the baloon travels. Soon it's blocked by two large oaks. Carl steps to the left and I follow so that we have a better view. We watch, eyes shielded from the August sun, until the balloon becomes a dot and then vanishes from our sight into a distant cloud.

Twenty-four years of lifting balloons into the sky, my symbolism of releasing love, of watching something perform what I cannot---an item sail into the sky on its own, climbing closer to Heaven. Twenty-four years of an ache that will not leave. I love you, Daniel. My love for family and friends has grown over these long years, so it makes sense that the love for you has increased also. I love you today and I will love you more tomorrow.

And those are a few of the lessons that grief has taught me.