This was written yesterday . . . posted only after sleeping on it . . .

Today is my son’s sixth birthday.

But it wasn’t him I woke up thinking about this morning.

I woke up thinking about the mammas and daddies who have had to say good-bye to a child before they ever got to say hello. People like my friend Shannon’s sister, my daughter’s first grade teacher and my mother’s quilting friend. On my mind most, however, have been my brother J. and his wife A. and their little Olivia.

Olivia was stillborn at 38 weeks last April 5th.

I never got to meet her.

I miss her terribly.

Why today? Why on G’s birthday has Olivia filled my mind so completely?

Maybe because the outcome on Olivia’s birthday was so very different.

Or maybe because when I celebrate the birth of one of my children I celebrate who they were, who they are and who they are becoming; and my heart aches because the opportunity to know Olivia and have her physically in our lives and all that brings with it was taken away from us.

Or maybe because it was just time for another round of tears.

(Long pause. Deep breath.)

A. shared with me once something a friend of hers told her that has been a source of comfort. A. was telling her friend about being sure that one day she would get to know why this happened.

Her friend said, “And when you do, it won’t matter why anymore.”

A.’s friend is right.

It won’t matter why because when that question is answered Olivia and her mamma will be together.

Just as one day Olivia will be with her daddy and grandparents and aunties and uncles and cousins and siblings and everyone else who is loving on her from here.

. . . and so we will have a chance to know her . . . but we have to wait . . . wait with ache in our hearts. 

I believe Olivia knows all of this.

I also believe that Olivia is in the care of someone who loves her more than we can fathom . . . she is in His hands.

G-d bless you Olivia. I look forward to seeing your sweet face . . . which I’m just sure is going to have little freckles on it.

I love you.

Auntie D

Gravity + Time

I found the picture below in a post over at Coal Creek Farm. April, the blogger, found it by Googling “well head.”

I’m sure there is a connection . . . somewhere.

Anyway, I decided the picture was worth sharing. (You can thank me later.)  I also decided I would share a few thoughts I had when I stumbled across this little gem.

My first thought was, “There is a man who has obviously lived his life and is quite comfortable in his own skin.”

My second thought was, “Wow . . . good to know . . . gravity + time does not discriminate . . . man boobs eventually seek out their neighborhood bellybutton, too.”

Just an observation.



This is my friend S and her husband.

When I saw this picture I told S she should give up the jewelry business and get an agent. Gorgeous couple. More importantly, though, is the fact that these two people are wonderful, loving, hard-working, beautiful on the inside, G-d loving people.

S, her husband and their four darling little blue-eyed blond stair-step children used to live right down the street from us.

But a year and a half ago they moved.

And I miss them terribly.

So the other morning as I lie awake at 6:00 a.m. I wrote a poem for these dear people. Generally speaking, poetry writing is not my gig (you’ll see why in a bit) but I couldn’t sleep and I was thinking about how much I miss living down the street from them . . . about how much I miss being able to meet S halfway down the block to hand off groceries, kids or whatever the other one of us was in need of and borrowing . . . about how much I miss their kids sitting at my kitchen counter eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with my kids . . . and about how much laundry is generated at S’s house.

S gave birth every two years (or sooner) for six years. One of the side effects of living in a house with six people, four of whom are under five feet tall, is having insane amounts of laundry and no kids old enough to really be responsible for it. (If I recall correctly the giant jacuzzi bathtub in the house in which they lived when they were here was perpetually full of laundry – sometimes clean, sometimes not.)

S – I love you. I miss you . . . and if we ever live close to each other again I’ll come over and help fold laundry.

In the meantime, this is for you and yours.

Laundry, laundry everywhere
Laundry, laundry in my hair

Piled on the couch
Piled on the chairs
Piled on the table and the basement stairs
I sort and wash and dry and fold
but the laundry never stops
It’s a sight to behold
In my dreams, when I’m tucked in bed
I see laundry piled over my head
It spills to the kitchen and out the front door
Somewhere under it is my basement floor 
But when I sort and wash and dry
It’s little pink socks and stripey jams
Sunday school dresses and a little girls tam
Swimming trunks and an Underoo
A boy’s blue hoodie and laces for a shoe
Everywhere I look I see
Tiny little clothes surrounding me
One day soon it’ll all be gone
Part of my past for which I’ll long
It’s one of those things that doesn’t last
It’ll go quickly, much to fast
And I’ll be left with a house so neat
No clothes to trip up anyone’s feet
Because one day my kids will be grown
Up and out
All on their own
So in these days of laundry galore
I’ll keep going
I’ll treasure this chore
Because it means, for me, you see
my kids are close . . .
Right here with me.