Every morning when I drive my 6th grader to school, the sun is in just the right spot in the sky to blind us. It’s irritating, but it’s also beautiful. The sun singes the edges of the clouds with an orange glow, and the sky is fifteen different shades of blue. It’s a daily gift and a breathtaking reminder to see the forest from the trees, and I often find myself saying to my son, “Look up.”
Look up because your phone can wait. Look up because there’s so much more to life than middle school angst. Look up because no matter what awful thing happens today, the sun will blind us again tomorrow. Look up because it all goes by so fast. I know it doesn’t feel like it, but I promise it does. Look up for no other reason than, in this moment, the sky is magic.
Today, he looked up. “I see Harry,” he said.
I saw Harry, too. I see him in the moon and the stars, in rainbows, and in sunsets, and I definitely saw him in this morning’s exquisite morning sky. What Dylan didn’t know was that today is the anniversary of the day we said goodbye to our sweet Harry.
“Do you know today is the anniversary of the day Harry died?” I asked as we pulled into the parking lot.
“Wait. Harry died the day after Halloween?” My son was five when Harry died. He was old enough to experience the grief and loss, but too young for the details—the day, the time, the sun in the sky—to stick.
“Yes. He died the morning after Halloween. And you saw him in the sky today, exactly five years later. Isn’t that cool? That’s why it’s so important to look up.”
He paused for a moment and then said, “Okay,” like a typical eleven year old kid who has to suffer the injustice of going to school the day after Halloween.
Today, he looked up. He paused. So did I. And I’m grateful.
Miss you lots, Bo-Berry. ❤️❤️❤️