Todestag

Today is my son’s first todestag, a German word for death day. I like this word a lot. It acknowledges a day that holds as much sentiment as the day Troy was born and its significance. I distinctly remember the first time I laid eyes on his face, that precious, gorgeous face, holding him in my arms in the hospital bed. And just as clearly, I will always remember the last time I saw his face, that precious, gorgeous face, although unable to hold him as he lay on a gurney headed to the mortuary.

It may be easier for you to think of this day as an anniversary, but not me. An anniversary is a tip of the hat to significant days in my life. My anniversaries have always been in a state of flux depending on the circumstance. For instance, my wedding anniversary has changed a couple of times. I have acknowledged several employment anniversaries. And Lord knows I’d rather forget that my gym membership anniversary has passed, and I am still a novelty each time I cross the threshold. ​​ I was at a complete loss as to how to regard the day and do it justice. How do I to commemorate or acknowledge that a year has come and gone since my loved one passed away? There is no grave site to visit with flowers, nor does that seem like an adequate display of recognition. My son came home one last time and placed on the bookshelf. I am comforted by being able to see him and pat his urn each day, and know he is finally safe and at peace, but I wanted today to be more. I thought I could begin a tradition to mark the occasion, find rituals that are observed by other cultures. Maybe I should black out the mirrors and turn guests away, or have them come in with a covered dish. Perhaps I should just spend the day sitting, praying and fasting. I even considered ashes and sackcloth.

​​This is a day I want to tell the world, “Give pause, for my son is dead, and this day is sacred and must be revered." I feel I should recognize the day and my child by doing something extravagant and over the top. I decided to take him out and spend the day with him. I announced it’s a “take your dead son to work day” at the office, and we will be showing up with donuts. We will go out for ice cream and sit in the park and listen to his favorite music. I will tell him again and again that he is forever loved, and beloved, and beautiful, and his music still irritates me.

My other children will be aghast. They will disapprove and protest as I strap the Cloisonné urn into the front seat and back out of the driveway. They will say I have lost my mind, and they will be embarrassed. But this may be the day that cleanses my soul and gives me a sense of closure. This may finally be the day that I make peace.

Glücklicher Todestag, Mein Sohn.