Tori, and the line of candles floating down the river.
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I like the song "Happy Birthday,"
don't get me wrong.
What I hate is when it gets sung like a
dirge, slow as a funeral procession. I think it's because one person
usually starts it off (usually in a key no one else can sing, but
that's a different problem) and holds that first syllable/note -
"Haaaaaaaa" long enough to gather the rest of the singers.
And it never picks up the pace.
C'mon man! It's a birthday! It's a
party! It's a celebration! And the wax candles are dripping on the
damn cake!
There's no reason the song can't be
sung in about 10 seconds, but at most birthdays it seems to go on
forever. It's like the Super Bowl in Vegas, where you can bet on the
over/under for how long it will take the famous country singer to
sing the national anthem. (Always take the over.)
So Monday night, I made sure that we
sang "Happy Birthday" at a nice, festive clip, the words
floating out over the dark waters of the Mississippi as we celebrated
Alex's birthday.
Our daughter, Alexandria Gail
Boedigheimer, would have been 27 Monday. She died last summer – on
her mother's birthday and Tori has already said we're simply not
celebrating her birthday ever again. We still don't know what
happened, other than she went to sleep and didn't wake up. It still
hurts every day.
Monday was her birthday. It was a rainy
morning, but that was OK, since we had plans. As long as it cleared
up by evening everything would be fine. We spent the day making
little origami boats. 27 of them. I even folded one, and if you know
me you know not to associate me and crafts.
The sky did clear up and late in the
afternoon we headed out for the Mississippi. Most of its sinuous
length is bordered by tall earthen berms designed to keep it where it
belongs in severe weather. Much of New Orleans is actually below sea
level, and the highest point is only 20 feet (and that's probably the
top of the berms) so you can see why that's a good idea. There is a
path you can walk along the top of the berm, but the face is fairly
steep and covered with riprap to keep it from eroding. So getting to
the river can be tricky.
It took us a couple of tries before we
found the set of steps going down to the water's edge, off the public
parking by Jackson Square. We were separated from the city lights by
the berm, but there was plenty of traffic on the river, barges being
pushed against the current, a small freighter moving up river, a
tourist-looking stern wheeler coming down. At the bottom of the
stairs were a couple of young people sitting, watching the river.
They offered advice on the best way to the water, and seemed
interested in what we were doing.
From the shingle that ran along the
riverside, we could see a form about twenty feet out in the river –
I never did figure out on what, but he was standing on "something"
– facing away from the bank, his arms outraised, chanting to the
moon.
We got out the bin full of little paper
kayaks and the plastic bag full of tea candles and set to work –
but we couldn't find the lighter! Fortunately, the two people sitting
on the stairs came over and were happy to help. They were a couple of
kids, young 20s, who had hitched and hiked from New Jersey and were
in no hurry to be anywhere. They were a guy and a girl in their 20s,
long hair, backpacks, knit caps, dog with bandana. In fact, Kate was
wearing a similar knit cap that she had gotten from Alex. These kids
could have been two of Alex's hippie friends. Certainly I saw enough
of her friends to recognize the type. When they said by next summer
they hoped to have made it to Eugene, that cemented it. Alex lived
there for a couple of years. It was perfect.
They had a lighter and we set to work.
The problem was the current. Between
the fact that the tide was coming in and the traffic was moving up
and down the river sending out bow wakes, the boats didn't want to go
out. So Robyn rolled up her pants legs and waded out. The two
travelers and Kate and Max lit the candles, then carefully passed
them over to Tori, who stood at the edge of the river and gingerly
passed them to Robyn. She set them adrift.
The boats didn't go out far, not much
more than a few feet, but they drifted bravely down the river bank,
bobbing in the current, their lights flickering merrily like so many
birthday candles. Which was the point, of course.
We were joined by an old man, rail
thin, grizzled and with a few missing teeth. And when I say old, I
mean probably my age but he looked a lot older – didn't he? DIDN'T
HE?? – because of the life he was living. He offered a few
comments, then asked where we were from. We told him we lived nearby,
and told him what we were doing, and he started crying.
He was a Cajun, from down around Houma,
and he had lost his wife, Dale, some time ago – when was not
exactly clear. She was his life, she was an angel, she was everything
to him. When she died he tried to kill himself, but woke up three
days later in a hospital, pretty pissed off about it. He finally left
town, he said, because he couldn't take it any more, everything he
saw reminded him of her, and he couldn't stand it when people told
him, "You'll get over it," "Things will get better."
And all the other stuff that just means, "I've never been hurt
as deeply as you have been and don't get it, and I don't know what
else to say."
We got it. Some things you never get
over, you just learn to accept that the world now has a different
shape, a hole where someone important used to be. A hole the shape of
Dale. Another the shape of Alex.
That's just the way it is.
He was now living under a nearby pier,
just waiting – for what, he didn't say. He actually was very
interesting – and funny. He told "a Cajun story" so well,
so brilliantly acted, that when he got to the punchline it was a
scream. Told Kate and Max a longish story about honoring your father
and mother. Told me when he first saw us he'd taken us for tourists
and was coming by to panhandle, but now "I couldn't take
anything from you. You've already given me so much."
We let him light one of the candles and
set it out. We all shared a sip of wine we'd brought down. Then we
all joined together, the family who could be there and the others who
couldn't be but were there in spirit, our friend Robyn standing in
for all the extended family who helped raise our daughter, our new
young hippie friends who stood in for all of Alex's friends, and our
Cajun acquaintance representing the people you meet on life's
journey. We stood together and sang happy birthday, the notes ringing
out across the water, joining the sounds of the river traffic and the
cathedral bells ringing in the distance as the last of the lights
flickered, then went out – too soon – leaving the water cloaked
in darkness.
We remember you Alex, and we love you,
and always will. Some things never change.
Oops! Moved the camera too soon.
