My baby turns 17 next month. His nearly six foot frame towers over me. He is looking at colleges and preparing for his driver’s test. His days include sports practices, video games, and hanging out with friends. He is far from the child I wore groves into the hardwood as I paced the floor carrying him every night for months on end because it was the only things that would stop the crying.
This week, my man child spent a good portion of his time in my classroom helping me set it up for the school year. We unpacked box after box of books, supplies, and personal effects. Included in that list was a picture of my four kids taken in 2014. The little boy in that picture only reached my shoulders. He has not only added over a dozen inches to his stature, his face has taken on the look of a young man, facial hair included.
He mentioned to me that he hates this picture of him with the silly smile, yet it’s the same one that’s sat on my desk year after year. I haven’t replaced it, because it’s the last picture I have of all four of my kids together. It’s as if this picture is an attempt to freeze time. It’s not so much a romanticizes image of period of life devoid of struggle, but simply a time when we were all present. A time before we were less. Before we were broken. Before we became a different family.
I wonder how many times in clinging to my grief and loss I have kept my other children from growing up. How many celebrations in their lives have I unwittingly marred because I was missing someone who was no longer with us? How many times has my worry kept them from experiencing the freedoms that should come with increased age and maturity? Have I done my job in walking them through this loss in their lives? Have I stunted them, held them too tightly, or suffocated them unintentionally? Is that old picture just a reflection of being stuck in the “before.”
The next morning, I crawled out of bed a little earlier than I would have liked, and I sorted through a box of pictures that included our most recent family photo session. I pulled out a print, and then ordered a frame. I had looked for one that included the kids holding the picture of their brother, but I didn’t have one. Instead, I selected one of the five of us. I’m sort of glad I only had that one. I’ll place this new picture next to the old. Adding on without replacing. Less like a timeline of growth and more like a memorial to “before and after.”
In order to hold on to those we have lost, we are required to freeze time while also moving forward. We add new memories devoid of those we have lost, but cling to the before memories in a different way than everyone who is simply just collecting memories as they grow and change. With grief, all new memories as categorized as before and after. They become layered in the same way photos line our mantels with the most recent pictures of our children with dates that no longer coincide.
Most people have experienced loss, death, and grief. Most people cling to memories of that person absent from their lives. Most people are adding layers of memories of “before this” and “before that” in their lives as most of us have lost more than one loved one. We are people with layers of memories and broken timelines that mar our past. It would be good to remember that when we encounter people. Some layers are more panful than others, and most of us don’t walk around advertising where out timeline cracked or even shattered.
Let’s tread lightly. Speak kindly. Love deeply.