I want to say that we will never get over this loss, that it has ruined our family, torn us apart, and left us all bloody and begging for mercy—that our hearts have left our bodies and will be buried in the ground today. That there will always be a gaping, painful hole in our family and a feeling that something isn’t right, that no holiday, vacation, meal, or conversation will ever be the same.
I want to say that I don’t know how I will continue to exist in the world in the same way ever again. But, I know if Harris were listening—and I have to pray that he is out there listening, continuing to be our tour guide through the cosmos—that he would tell me to stop future-tripping, to just be in this moment today.
So, I will say that today, I miss my brother more than I can possibly explain. Today, I am devastated and sad and angry and empty. Today, I long to bring him back and fix things and try to understand. Today, I would pay a million dollars to hear him laugh or say hi, sister, to see that one self-conscious smile that he always wore. Today, I love my brother with all of my being. And I always will.
Today.
Today is my birthday.
Today is my birthday that will forever fall the day after you died.
I lie in bed for several moments in the quiet before putting my feet on the floor. Mike has let me sleep in. The dog is curled up in his nook beside me. I reach for my phone by the bedside table. The Facebook Happy Birthday messages are in full swing. Mom says: “Hope it’s a decent 35th birthday my special, kind, sensitive, beautiful daughter. I adore you and am beyond proud of all that you have become. You are so strong in your convictions and such an amazing mom. You were the best sister on earth. He was so lucky to have you. Let’s hold hands and keep moving forward. Our loving family bond will help. It has to. I love you.”
Last year, Facebook confused the condolence messages with the birthday messages, so every time I logged on, I was greeted with an exploding graphic of balloons and confetti. I lie there and think: Why didn’t I turn these comments off?
After a few minutes of staring at the ceiling fan, I head downstairs. There are flowers on the dining room table and a colorful drawing by the tiny artist who lives in my house. The note in Magic Marker says: “To the best mommy in the world on her birthday. Love, Iris 2016.” She’s watching The Princess Bride, your favorite childhood movie. Well, maybe second to Pee-wee’s Big Adventure. As a kid, you compulsively did the dance Pee-wee does in the biker bar scene to the song “Tequila.” I can still hear Mom squealing, “Harris, do the dance! Do the dance!” It always brought the house down. Third place for favorite childhood movie was definitely Labyrinth. When you were Iris’s age, you would watch these movies on repeat. They would end and you would demand that Mom rewind the tapes and play them again and again and again. Iris does this, too, now.
I’m immediately greeted with a smothering hug and “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!” I sit on the couch. Mike wraps his arms around me. We watch the scene in the fire swamp with the ROUS’s (Rodents of Unusual Size). Bursts of fire erupt every few steps that Westley and Buttercup take. Iris tells us “That’s fire! Make pizza!” Pizza ovens are her only frame of reference for a flame that large.
I’m sandwiched between my husband to my left and my daughter to my right and we’re watching TV in our pajamas and tears form in my eyes when I think of you, and I take a deep breath and look out the window and see the blue sky and the clouds moving along and a bird flying, and then three more, and I think: Life is happening all around me.
I have Iris. And Mike. And Mom. And Dad. And Wiley, the dog. And my friends. And my students. And the sun. And the sky.
Life is happening all around me.
• • •
When we were little, Benihana was your favorite birthday destination. You liked wearing the tall red hat and haggling the chef. The last time we came here together on Christmas Eve, 2013, you took a photo of our chef and posted it on Instagram with a caption that read: “Houston Benihana. They made this Mexican guy be called Chan. I ain’t buyin it.” While I don’t want to celebrate my birthday, I don’t want Dad to be alone for dinner. Mom is away on her “I’m Gonna Do Whatever I Want Because My Son Died and I Fucking Deserve It” Girl’s Trip, and we all have to eat. So, Benihana it is.
At dinner, Dad and I go through two bottles of sake. Iris is riveted by the cooking show or attempting to shovel rice into her mouth with chopsticks or curled up on the ground with her rain boots kicked off her feet watching this weird Canadian clown show called The Big Comfy Couch on my iPhone. Mike has gotten me a white cake with white icing and colorful sprinkles that simply says: Day. The waitress brings it over in a giant, pink box. She lights a single candle. The birthday song is sung. I make a wish and blow out my candle. Iris “helps” and keeps saying “Mommy Happy Birthday!” She loves birthdays. It’s not so bad.
Last year on my birthday, I invited friends to a tiki bar down the street, but we never made it. Tonight, some of those friends casually
