Memories

There is not a day that goes by that I do not think of Ryan. Some days the missing is quiet — a song on the radio, the smell of something on the grill — and other days it knocks the wind out of me.

I find myself talking to him in the car. Telling him about the grandkids, about a strange thing that happened at work, about the silly stuff he would have laughed at. I hope he hears me. I think he does.

Ryan was the best gift giver. He paid attention. He noticed the thing you mentioned in passing six months earlier and remembered it when your birthday rolled around.

That was the magic of him — he was watching, listening, loving you the whole time even when you didn't realize it. I keep a few of those gifts on my dresser. They still feel like little notes from him.

Today you would have been 45. I have a hard time picturing you any older than the day we lost you, but I try.

I think you would be a wonderful uncle to your niece and nephew, telling them all the stories your sister would rather they not hear. I think you would still be the funniest one in the room. I think you would still be loved by every dog within a mile.

Happy birthday, sweet boy. We are celebrating you today, like we do every day.

February has always been a tender month for our family. Birthdays piling up, Valentine's Day, the slow turn toward spring. Ryan loved February. He would orchestrate dinners and outings as if he were the one in charge of celebrating everyone.

I am trying to lean into that this year — to celebrate the way he would, to make sure no one goes uncelebrated.

A friend told me recently that the people we lose live on in the moments we choose to remember them. I have been thinking about that.

Every time we tell a story about Ryan — the time he tried to teach the kids the wrong words to a song, the way he would whistle at the dog and the dog would lose her mind — he is here again, in the room with us, just for a moment.

I dreamed about Ryan last night. He was young, maybe twelve, on his BMX bike, all elbows and knees. He waved as he rode past. I called out to him but I don't think he heard me.

I woke up and lay in the dark for a long time, trying to hold onto the picture of him. Trying to memorize his face all over again.

I think about this sometimes — how much Ryan would have loved being able to keep up with everyone. He was the kind of person who wanted to know how your mother was doing, how your dog was doing, how your old friend from high school was doing.

He would have been the one commenting on every birthday post, sending dumb memes to his friends, sharing pictures of every meal. He would have been so good at it.