Sixteen

“Spring has always reminded me of Cameron...”

It is the fifteenth of September today.

Sometime before lunch, I receive a message from Fran: How are you today, my friend?

It is several hours before I reply: I am okay today. Slightly melancholic, but mostly thankful.

Yes, it is the fifteenth of September today.

Which means today is Cameron's anniversary—his sixteenth, to be exact. It was sixteen years ago that he died. It has been sixteen years without my son.

And yet, I feel strangely okay today.

Slightly melancholic, for sure.

But mostly thankful.

And I think that is okay.

To be thankful on a day like today.

___

I am writing in the front room of the house, with the sun pouring in through the open shutters of the two tall windows. In lieu of a desk and chair, I am sitting cross-legged on a cushion, with my laptop on a small wooden stool and my back pressed up against the IKEA cupboards that line the length of the room. For better or for worse, this is my current workspace. And it works.

It is delightfully warm and sunny today. Outside, the sun is out and about, the sky is blue, and the only clouds I can spy are thin, wispy, and barely there. Though the cherry blossoms on our street have been and gone, you can still spot them here and there around the neighbourhood, spreading joy to everyone who passes.

Spring has always reminded me of Cameron, and this year is no different.

Some years it feels bittersweet. But this year, it simply feels—sweet.

Yes, Cameron’s season is well and truly here.

It is beautiful, and I am thankful.

___

Almost every weekday for the last month, I have been making French toast for breakfast. This was partly inspired by

Tess Guinery

, which is a true testament to the power of words.

Every morning, I wave goodbye to Rick and the two younger boys as they drive off towards school before heading straight to the kitchen. I crack one egg into a small porcelain bowl and add a drop of vanilla essence and a splash of soy milk. I whisk this up with a fork, but pour the mixture into metal dish. Next, I pour olive oil onto our small cast iron pan, then remove a thick slice of frozen bread from the freezer and place it into the microwave. I defrost the bread for forty seconds and head up the pan at the same time. Once the bread is defrosted, I dip both sides in the egg mixture and transfer it straight to the cast iron pan. I set my timer for one minute and forty-five seconds, cook the other side of the bread for another minute, then transfer the bread onto a porcelain plate.

All of this takes about five minutes if I’m moving fast, and the result is (usually) a crunchy golden piece of yummy goodness.

I take it into the garage, set it down on our ping pong table, upon up the garage doors, pull up a chair, bring out some cutlery, a cup of tea, and my Bible, then sit down to enjoy fifteen minutes of scripture, solitude, silence, and savoury delight in the morning sun.

This little ritual has been a godsend—both literally and metaphorically—and I am thankful to Tess for her words and to my husband for pre-cutting the bread into thick pieces for me so that I can enjoy this morning ritual of mine.

___

Earlier this week, I had dinner with Sandra, a close friend of mine from school. We met over thirty years ago, and if memory serves me correctly, she was, in fact, the first high school friend I made. I was in awe of her high cheekbones, and she was in awe of my loud laugh. We used to exchange diaries (a popular fad back in the nineties), and we would write each other the most heartfelt and often hilarious essay-length journal entries. Amongst other things, we would give each other very amusing and rather questionable advice when it came to the cute boys we developed crushes on. (To be fair, my advice was usually more questionable than hers. Being nine months older, Sandra was always just a tad more level-headed than me.)

Anyway, we hadn’t seen each other and hadn’t really chatted in almost six months, but over Vietnamese food in Chatswood on Tuesday night, it was like we simply picked up where we left off. We ate, we chatted, we laughed (loudly), we sighed, we commiserated. We chatted until everyone else had left and the waitress began mopping the floor around us.

Sandra had a sudden craving for dessert, so we made our way to Nana's Green Tea at the Interchange, where she ordered a Hojicha Mochi Parfait. She insisted that I try some, and it would be safe to say that I fell in love with roasted green tea ice-cream right there and then. (What kind of Asian am I anyway, that I’d never tried it before?) As I checked out the eye candy on the menu, I declared out loud that I would have to start making my own matcha lattes because they looked so ridiculously good.

Sandra laughed.

‘Have some more ice-cream,’ she said.

___

Two days later, I find myself in the tea aisle at Woolworths, trying to track down the matcha brand that Sandra had recommended. I am about to give up, when I spy it, right at the bottom of the shelf. I grab it and drive straight home.

In the coolness of the kitchen, I exchange text messages with Sandra to try and work out how to best create a matcha latte without any of the correct tools. In the end, I whisk the matcha in a measuring jug with a small egg whisk, cool it down in the freezer for fifteen minutes, then pour the matcha into a glass filled with ice cubes and my soy milk.

It is delicious, and I am smitten.

I think this will replace my afternoon coffee, I inform Sandra via text.

___

When Cameron first died, I did not and could not grasp how life could ever be ‘normal’ or ‘good’ again. How could I possibly ever smile again, laugh again, feel real joy again, or even just get through a day without crying, having lost my son?

Sixteen years on, I cannot deny how much ‘good’ there is in our life: our five other sons, our parents, our families, our friends, our health, and the simple fact that I get to eat food, wear clothes, write from the safety of a sunny room, and sleep with a roof over my head at night.

Truly, God has given us much. Yes, He took Cameron away, but He has given us much as well.

And so, today, I am melancholic.

But mostly, I am thankful.

And I think that is okay.

To be thankful on a day like today.