Silent Confetti
Rebekah had a birthday party yesterday. I'm not sure who Rebekah is, but the reminders of her party were all over the "green playground" yesterday when I went with Layth, my two-year-old, at dusk. We identify all of our local playgrounds by the colors of their slides. This makes it easy for him to tell us which playground he wants to go to.
The colorful sidewalk chalk wished Rebekah a happy birthday and requested that male and female guests sign in under separate columns, which they did. The ground was resplendent with shiny, multicolored confetti. The joy of her celebration lingered long after everyone had gone home. Layth and I were happy just looking at it.
As the brilliant sunset faded and the gold that lined the clouds disappeared, washing us in shades of grey, I was left thinking about my two beautiful daughters, Mina and Layla, who were lost to me in the summer of 2003. The playground had fallen silent, the revelers had retreated, and a hush had fallen over the area. The brisk wind stirred the confetti and carried to us the scent of the controlled bonfire across the street, and only the distant sound of dogs barking and the occasional car engine disturbed us. It was peaceful ... too peaceful for a place filled with confetti. It brought to mind the feelings I had right after losing the girls. Everywhere I turned, I was confronted with reminders of them, their voices and laughter ringing in my ears, but all was silent where it had never been silent before.
Idly fingering an abandoned piece of purple sidewalk chalk, I was overcome with the irresistible urge to write to the girls. On an unadorned stretch of concrete, I knelt and wrote, "We miss you Mina and Layla. Love, Mama and Layth" with a heart underneath. As I sat back and looked at the heartfelt missive, I wondered what tomorrow's visitors to the playground would think. Would parents wonder who Mina and Layla were? Would children rub out the message? Would people just think maybe they were on vacation somewhere? In the end, I didn't care. I did what I felt the need to do, and it made me feel better.
We miss you, Mina and Layla.
Happy birthday, Rebekah.
The colorful sidewalk chalk wished Rebekah a happy birthday and requested that male and female guests sign in under separate columns, which they did. The ground was resplendent with shiny, multicolored confetti. The joy of her celebration lingered long after everyone had gone home. Layth and I were happy just looking at it.
As the brilliant sunset faded and the gold that lined the clouds disappeared, washing us in shades of grey, I was left thinking about my two beautiful daughters, Mina and Layla, who were lost to me in the summer of 2003. The playground had fallen silent, the revelers had retreated, and a hush had fallen over the area. The brisk wind stirred the confetti and carried to us the scent of the controlled bonfire across the street, and only the distant sound of dogs barking and the occasional car engine disturbed us. It was peaceful ... too peaceful for a place filled with confetti. It brought to mind the feelings I had right after losing the girls. Everywhere I turned, I was confronted with reminders of them, their voices and laughter ringing in my ears, but all was silent where it had never been silent before.
Idly fingering an abandoned piece of purple sidewalk chalk, I was overcome with the irresistible urge to write to the girls. On an unadorned stretch of concrete, I knelt and wrote, "We miss you Mina and Layla. Love, Mama and Layth" with a heart underneath. As I sat back and looked at the heartfelt missive, I wondered what tomorrow's visitors to the playground would think. Would parents wonder who Mina and Layla were? Would children rub out the message? Would people just think maybe they were on vacation somewhere? In the end, I didn't care. I did what I felt the need to do, and it made me feel better.
We miss you, Mina and Layla.
Happy birthday, Rebekah.
1 Comments:
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