Remember November, November 13th...

It’s November 13th, little sweetheart. Today is your 36th birthday. Your mom told me that when you were a little girl you had trouble remembering when exactly your birthday was. Didn’t you often tell me that you were no good “with numbers”? If I was looking at a calendar and trying to plan something with you, wouldn’t you tell me that you couldn’t be quite sure about such and such a date because “that’s a number, you know”. Your mom and I were talking about that, we were outside, she was on one of those little lounge chairs with a cup of coffee and the puppy in her lap, a routine of fairly recent vintage and largely carried out for the cocker spaniel - little Gidget -’s enthusiastic benefit. Your mom told me that the way she helped you commit the date to memory was by composing a little rhyme for you: “Remember November. November 13th.” It’s one of the treasures of my life to have spent each of your birthdays, in the time we knew each other, together. And it came as something of a shock at first and then made absolutely sense that the very first time I actually saw your name was in the body of an email on the November 13th less than a month before we first met. I was working in London and I got a missive from our friend Chris Smith at The Magic in San Francisco confirming the initial read-through of Tir na nOg - the play we would do together there - for just after Thanksgiving. The entire cast and company was cc’d and it was there that I first saw your name. In an email dated November 13th, 2007.

Three weeks later, Chris and a couple of folks from the theatre would pick me up at SFO to take me on to rehearsal and all anyone in the car could talk about was you - this brilliant, little red-headed tornado they’d cast in the leading role. When I finally laid eyes on you from across the room, from across the production table, I didn’t quite know what to make of you - you looked to be about 16. And a Goth. Remember, I told you this? And you couldn’t think, nor could I, what made me think that. You weren’t dressed up in black leather or anything. We guessed that you maybe had make up on. I still don’t know what that was about. Later, during the break between acts, we found ourselves together, alone, at the little refreshment table. There must’ve been 30 people at that read-through - designers and staff as well as the cast - and in this moment, somehow, it was just you and I for the very first time. You were making yourself a little plate and saving half for later - a practice I would come to know and love. I can’t remember exactly what we said to each other, can you, my love? I think you must’ve asked me if I was from New York and I think at some point during the exchange I came to understand that you weren’t in high school, that you lived in the city, that you’d returned after college, after getting your Master’s Degree, that you’d been born here. After the break when we resumed reading the second act you stopped abruptly just a few lines in and said you’d lost the (Irish) accent. “Lucky Charms. Lucky Charms…” you intoned, making everyone laugh before starting again from the top.

These are my very first memories of you, Summer. My very first, my little sweetheart. My heart is so full today. So full of you. So full of love and remembrance and longing. It is both gorgeous and absolutely devastating. I can almost touch our life just out of reach and weep with wanting to do so. I ache for you. And I’m also overwhelmed with gratitude for the light and love you brought with such grace and selflessness into my broken, hurting life. How you held me in your arms and wrapped your little feet around my ankles and stroked the well of my chest and called me your treasure. How you made all things right. How I miss you! How I love you!

It’s your birthday, today, my little sweetheart. And I remember…