At the time, Mom and Dad were living in their own home in Seattle. My siblings and I had not yet begun the painful years of moving our parents from their house to a senior living center and then to adult family homes, one after the other until we found the 'right' one for them both. Kelan is now what Mom might call 'a strapping young boy', full of good health and enthusiasms.
I called Kelan this afternoon to wish him happy birthday. He asked, "When are you coming to Seattle?" and "Where will be go for my birthday excursion?"
"Think about what you'd like to do, Kelan," I said, "and when I see you, we can decide together. Have a happy day."
Yesterday, I found myself in a doctor's office. As I waited in an examining room, I noticed my reflection in the mirror on the back of the door, seated with my legs crossed and a hand draped over my knee. My hand looked exactly like Mom's hands. Our hands are the same. My fingers curved just like hers as she lay dying. I remembered her birthday and cried.
She and Kelan, the strapping young boy, will be ever connected by birth date and a name.