Eighteen

When Kolbjorn was born, the first thing I really noticed was his face. Before the chord was cut, before he was passed to me to hold, seconds after his first breath, I saw his blond hair, and then his face. One of my first thoughts was how masculine this beautiful, blond baby looked. I knew he was a boy just by looking at his face. To me, he had such distinctive features; all babies look so similar - but he didn't look like just another baby. He looked so grown up. I remember thinking that I needed to memorize what he looked like. I thought that if he still looked that good as a teenager, he'd have to fight off the girls. I wanted to remember what he looked like then so I could compare it to what he looked like as a teenager. I wanted to preserve those moments, seconds after birth, when he first looked up at me. Even then he had such an insightful, penetrating gaze, it felt like he could see all my secrets as he looked at me. 

I never got to see what he looked like as a teenager. I have nothing to compare those memories to. The glimpse of his future that I had in those few seconds are all that I have. Those few moments were a taste of what I've missed, and a bit of insight to the young man Kol might have been today.  They were a gift.

Eight years.

Mari posted this to Facebook and Instagram tonight, and with her permission we're sharing it here:

It’s now been eight years without my brother. The grief feels both very old and shockingly new. It is as much a part of my day as brushing my teeth or cooking a meal: constant but also constantly renewed. 

I am now fairly comfortable within my loss and my identity of “girl whose brother died.” I know my answer to “How many siblings do you have?” There are days where thinking about him bring back no different feelings than other memories.

Then there are some days still where I am crushed. Crushed by his absence, by the loneliness, by my lost childhood, by the sudden obliteration of his. Days where I can’t breathe or think or sleep or cry because of the emptiness, the injustice that is childhood illness.

It’s important to talk about him. It’s important to talk about loss and grief. I heard someone say about grieving that “it doesn’t necessarily get easier, but it can get lighter.” My hope for you all is that life gets lighter.

I love you Kol. It’s been far too long.