If I look straight ahead of me from my spot at our kitchen table, I have a view of our patio and a row of hemlocks dividing our property from our neighbors. On the kitchen table itself, either in the center or at the opposite end are, as often as possible, vases of flowers from the garden or after the season, store-bought.
I've shown you this view often enough, look up above at my header and there it is in the blue hydrangeas. This Summer I've shared what's pink from the garden a couple of times.
We're fortunate to have a sunny kitchen, and more often than not, it's the light falling on the table that intrigues me.
On Friday morning while I ate my breakfast, the light fell on the table and flowers in such a way. I observed it and paused, wondering if it felt right to pick up my camera on that day, as if I were desirous of capturing the beauty on an ordinary September morning.
Except it wasn't an ordinary day, it was Aaron's birthday. The second one since he's been gone. He would have been nine, or should I say he is nine? I really don't know how that goes. On certain matters I never use the past tense.
To return to my view from my place at the table, to my left is another window from which I look out to the back of our house, to the garden and yard. On a sunny day, the light pours onto the table from that direction, southeast, if I'm correct.
On that windowsill sits an arrangement of Aaron's little toys that somehow found a home there. They weren't all necessarily the most recent additions, but they were small enough that we often placed them on the tray of his feeding chair.
And on the windowsill they have remained. A little boy collection of animals, cars, and helicopters, with a couple of Olivia's tiny animal clips, carefully chosen a few years ago at the toy store in Cape May and now forgotten.
I should be tripping over bigger boy toys by now, telling him to pick up his things. I should be marveling at how his imagination puts those toys in action, quietly watching from the sidelines so as not to interrupt the flow of play.
Instead, as the animals and vehicles sat obediently on the sill, I spent the day connecting with those who love him and miss him. We took a family walk at the end of the day, the walk he and I always did with Tyler and then with Harry.
As always, with everything relating to Aaron, the day was hard and sad, but not without beauty, love and laughter. (We have Harry and Charlie to thank for that last one).