Dear Iris

Like every year, on the 15th of July, I walk through the garden I built for you in my mind. There is always a starry sky here, yet there are always flowers and trees and fireflies. I sit in a meadow, back rested against a fig tree, surrounded by white irises.

Photo by brandon siu on Unsplash

You would’ve been 7 years old. You would’ve started school in September. We would have shared the pleasure of picking school supplies and a special backpack for you to use.

Everything I found to be cool as a teenager is back in trend, everything I would’ve wanted you to like. Analog experiences, niche music, skating, vinyls and polaroids. We could’ve made mixtapes and learned how to bicycle together. I would’ve taken you to music concerts.

I’ve set my mind to learn how to make clothing this summer. I’ve been dreaming about it since I was 6. I would’ve loved to make clothes for you.

I bought a soap bubble maker the other day. The handle is shaped like a T-Rex’s head.

Your dad laughed at the childishness of it, but smiled every time he stole a glance at how happy blowing bubbles made me.

The grief has been shifting. It has changed in nuance. Maybe it’s because I changed.

It used to feel overwhelming on your birthday. I used to burst into tears when I happened upon your birth and death certificate right next to it. Now, I only feel sad and there’s more space for a whole array of emotions around it.

The grief doesn’t seem like a black hole, but a small box of memories I always open on the 15th of July. Inside it there’s also this alternate timeline where everything that I imagine we would’ve experienced with you actually happens.

Now there’s space for life to move around me, with me, for me. Space for other people, space for new experiences, space for the life I do have. Maybe there really is something magical about the number 7 that makes it such a turning point.

I’ll always write to you and visit your garden on your birthday.

I’ll think of you when I’ll learn how to ride a bicycle and when I’ll make clothing for my friends’ children.

I’ll think of you when I take photos or make a home video because I’m having a good time and I want to remember it.

I’ll think of you to remember that I only have one life and I must relish in it.

I used to say that my arms are empty because they didn’t hold you, but now I look at everyone I’m holding and everyone who’s holding me back and I smile. There is so much space and so much love to go around.

I’ll always hold you in my heart.

I love you forever, baby girl,

Mom.