The tea party

This past Monday marked seven years without Adelaide. Seven is the age Jackson was when his sister died, and how old Anessa is currently. Adelaide was born on the SEVENteenth and this year her birthday falls on Saturday, the seventh day of the week. Sevens abound!

Across many religious traditions, seven is an important number and can symbolize growth, introspection, and completion. While in no way do I feel like my healing journey is complete, I do feel it perhaps moving into a new phase.

In the first few years after Adelaide died, my grief was ravenous, compulsively consuming my thoughts and actions. With time, therapy, and an insane amount of writing, the biting edge of my grief has dulled and with significant effort I have gotten much better at allowing both grief and joy to coexist in my life. However, even though they are both present, their relationship to each other is more akin to a seesaw and rarely balanced.

Then, on Monday – that seven-year anniversary – life decided to test me.

Our children had off school for Indigenous People’s Day and Miguel had taken Jackson with him to work at Dingers, the batting cages we co-own. I stayed in bed longer than usual because I knew that the moment I opened my eyes I would relive waking up to a world without Adelaide just as I had done that first morning without her. But then I felt guilty for staying in bed and also a tinge of fear that Anessa was awake in the house by herself and she has been threatening to move on from painting canvasses to our walls.

I forced myself out of bed, acknowledged the significance of the day, and gave myself permission to feel whatever bubbled to the surface. In that moment, it was a desperate desire for a cup or two (or three) of coffee. I didn’t make it to the kitchen, though.

Anessa was waiting for me in the family room with her full tea set, complete with real crackers, cheese, and water in place of the tea.

“Good morning, Mommy! Would you like some tea?” Anessa asked me, beaming from the other side of the perfectly set coffee table.

My body froze and my mind raced.

We had talked the day before about what today was. How this was the anniversary of Adelaide dying. How later, we would pick sunflowers and remember her. Did she forget? Or does she just not understand the solemness of the day?

Guilt didn’t wait to make an appearance. How could I sit down and have a tea party with my living daughter on the anniversary of my other daughter dying? All I ever wanted was for Adelaide to be healthy, for her to be able to have a tea party with me. She never could. Was I really about to do this with my “new” child? On today of all days?

“Wow, that’s a beautiful set-up. Let me get some coffee first.” I said, buying myself time to think.

“I have breakfast here, so you don’t need to get anything to eat!” Anessa called to me from the other room.

I grabbed a ladybug mug from the cabinet.

It had been a long time since Anessa had asked me to have a tea party with her. We used to have them regularly while wearing silly hats and costume jewelry. These days Anessa was far more interested in her dolls or drawing.

A few weeks ago, Anessa had asked me what I would wish for if I could wish for anything. I said something like curing epilepsy or bringing Adelaide back healthy. I returned the question to Anessa who told me that she used to wish that she was a mermaid, "but they don’t exist, so that’s a silly wish." And my heart broke as I witnessed a chunk of her childhood fall away like ice from a glacier.

As I poured my coffee, I began to understand that this is what seven years of processing and remembering and healing had led me to. On this saddest day of the year, when I more acutely mourn the loss of my child, I am going to sit down and celebrate the imagination of another. I am going to hold grief and joy as closely as I ever have in one single moment and find the balance between the two.

I took my seat in the small white chair Anessa had pulled up to the coffee table right next to hers.

“This tea is simply divine,” I said in my best over-the-top British accent while taking a sip from the miniature cup.

“Wait until you try the cheese,” Anessa responded, mimicking me.

So on the seven-year anniversary of my daughter’s death, I found the balance between grief and joy – for a few moments anyway – during a tea party. I’m pretty sure Adelaide would have loved it. And I’m almost certain she was there.

ID: A gold picture frame containing a photo of Adelaide, age 3 is sitting in long grass in front a field of sunflowers.