CREATIVE NON-FICTION

To Burn a Name in Grief for Your Loss

A cremation ceremony for my old life

On your birthday, I will set fire to the name you once knew me by.

I no longer have access to your pictures online to watch you grow, even from afar. I’m blocked from seeing you. Did you know that I was there the day you were born, having waited all night in the hospital for you to see the faces of loved ones for the first time? Did you know that I walked in circles with your mother as she pushed through the pains of your imminent arrival?

I used to read to you and sing songs in our special language. Do you remember the words that I taught you? Do you remember the music and the dancing?

I knew how to stroke your forehead in the way that would make your eyes close at nap time as you fought against sleep at the exact same time every afternoon. You would stroke your own forehead with the back of your hand, pushing your hair out of the way, as you insisted that you weren’t sleepy after lunch.

I knew that blue was your favorite color of icing on cake.

You said that the color blue just tastes better. I understand what you mean. You liked little blue trucks, too. You loved transformers, but especially the Decepticon ones.

You loved science. You were only 4 years old when you explained to me about white blood cells. I’ve watched that video over and over. It makes me laugh through the tears every time. It terrifies me to imagine what you’ve learned about white blood cells in the years since we’ve hugged.

Do you still love the color blue, Decepticons, and science? I hope so. I want you to know that whoever you become, whatever and whoever you love, whatever you learn, I will always love and be proud of you exactly as you are. You deserve that from everyone in your family.

I want you to know that whoever you become, whatever and whoever you love, whatever you learn, I will always love and be proud of you exactly as you are. You deserve that from everyone in your family.

I’ve been wiped clean from your life and from the lives of so many others I love. Was my memory erased from yours? Will they let you see the gifts that I sent and will send for every birthday and holiday? Did they let you see my real name on each card?

Do you know who I am to you? Do you know that I’m your uncle? Will they try to tell you I abandoned you or that I didn’t love you enough to stay? Will you believe them if they do?

I don’t know if I will ever see you again.

Even if I do, it’s not so far fetched to understand why you might feel as if the person who cared for you as a child had died somewhere in the sunrise of your memory.

In a manner of speaking, it’s true to say you lost a relative to a kind of passing on. I’ve changed a lot since you last saw me, just as I imagine you’ve grown a lot in the years since I last saw you. I’ve become someone new; I’ve become myself. My voice is no longer the one you remember. I bet yours has changed, too.

Is survival a choice? Is the instinct to seek air while under water a choice?

Did I choose to become someone new to you by finding myself beneath the surface? Is survival a choice? Is the instinct to seek air while under water a choice? Was there a path forward under these circumstances that allowed me to stay in your life without erasure of one kind or another? I cannot find one. I wish I could, so that I could see you again.

As I look in the mirror, I no longer see much evidence of the body that caught you as you fell over and over as a toddler. I’m stronger now. I’m weaker in some ways, too. I wonder if photo recognition technology could make the connection between past and present. My past self and my present self have the same eyes. You could say the same thing about a child and their uncle. Genetics allow this sort of connection to exist.

As I look in the mirror, I no longer see much evidence of the body that caught you as you fell over and over as a toddler.

Am I grieving an erasure of self, a loss of blood family, a loss of the person who never existed, or the loss of a role that I played to survive, until I couldn’t anymore? I know that I grieve your loss, but I hope I haven’t lost you forever.

I want to tell you that I’m the same person, even if the mirror says that I’ve become someone new.

I remember everything clearly. I remember you clearly, even if I’ve changed so much that I feel like I’m losing touch with the life I had before.

I’m sorry that I can’t wish you a Happy Birthday in person. I hope you know that I love you and everyone else who is mourning my loss, whether they chose to lose me or not.

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