“Even so, one step from my grave,

I believe that cruelty, spite,

The powers of darkness will in time,

Be crushed by the spirit of light.”

– Boris Pasternak

For the past few days, I’ve been thinking a lot about life and death — light and darkness.

Yesterday marked the 31st anniversary of the death of my son, Brett.  It is beyond my ability to understand that if he were alive, we would celebrate his 38th birthday next month.  As I posted his picture on my Facebook page along with two dates, connected by a tiny dash, I tried to understand why it was important for me to do such a thing.  Thirty-one years is a long time.  A whole lot of living has taken place since Brett’s departure, and he has not be a part of the continuing story of my life.  I have watched my other children grow and change and mature into adults.  I have watched them become parents and welcomed grandchildren into my life.  The only appropriate comment I could think of to place under my son’s picture was, “Love goes on.”

It struck me yesterday, as I looked at that familiar school picture, that there are beginnings and endings to life.  My second child will be forever six years and eleven months old.  I don’t get to call him on the phone or hear about the exciting things that go on in his life.  Sometimes our present days are so full that his short time on earth seems like a distant dream.  One of the ways that I can allow myself to fully embrace each day as it comes is to reserve time on two days each year — Brett’s birthday and the day of his death — to bring him out of the distant dream and into the front of my mind and the center of my heart.  I speak his name.  I think of all the events of his short but happy life.  I remember my little boy and his full-tilt speed and funny laugh.  I think of how he would now be Uncle Brett to his six nieces and nephews.  I think of how he might have children of his own and a partner to cherish.  I return to the dream and remember the days that really did happen so very long ago, and I speak his name, and it feels good to remember.

My former mother-in-law lived to be 100 years old.  She was Brett’s grandmother; and she cherished him, just as she loved each of my children — even those born of my second marriage.  As she grew older, Dorothy often would tell me, “the most important thing is to be remembered.”  I thought she was speaking of her need to be assured that when she died her life would not simply vanish from the memories of people she loved.  I understand now that her words held truth for those of us who outlive our loved ones and go on without them in our daily lives.  It is good to remember.  It is good to remember the vitality that Brett and Dorothy brought to each of their days on earth; and it is good to realize that we honor their memory by living each day wholeheartedly, even in their absence.

At the time when we face losing someone dear, it can seem as though darkness has won.  Their light has been extinguished, and we are left to sit in the dark, missing the light of their presence.  What time has taught me is that the darkness is temporary.  The light goes on, because we create it each time we remember the joy and laughter and living that marked our loved ones’ days.  We carry the light in spite of not having them near to walk with us.  The light wins; in the end the light always wins.

I am thankful for the time I had to share with my son, a little boy who lit up the world everywhere he went.  I am thankful for days of remembering that allow his light to shine through a pinhole in the veil and make me warm as I return to my dreamlike past.  I am thankful for the chance to speak his name and the dates that surround his dash.  His story is one of light that overcomes the darkness.