I think of songs I might have sung to you,
the love I wanted you to hear.
Every time the blazing sun goes down,
another promise disappears.
I never knew the dusk could break my heart,
so much longing folding in,
I'd give years away to have you here,
to know I can't lose you again.
-from Fernando Ortega's, "Angel Fire"
Today Seth would be three years old. It's hard to imagine since we knew so little of him. At 8lbs, 2 oz, he was the biggest of our babies with red hair, Keith's nose and a face like his brothers.
Grief doesn't always honor anniversaries. Sometimes it's hard to feel anything at all because of the date on a calendar. More often a memory comes skipping up without warning on a sunny day as you sit waiting for the red light to change, leaving your eyes blinded.
But anniversaries have a purpose. Every year on this date, we release a red balloon with a note attached, which, as cliche as it may be, is somehow helpful in a tactile, present way. Today as Ethan wrote out his birthday message to his little brother he wondered out loud, "Maybe God can read it to him."
