Just another day

It’s just a day on a calendar. August 27. This year it falls on a Friday. This year I face it with an aching for something I can never have again—the presence of my son Adam. He would be turning 32.

I’m going to spend August 27 with people I love. I’m sure we will talk about Adam. We may even look at photos from some of his birthday parties. One of my favorites is from his first birthday.

There’s my mother Jane feeding Adam a bite of cake as he leans forward in his high chair. His face is covered in crumbs and Mom is smiling. She loved babies—the messier the better. I can see the uneven shaggy hair covering Adam’s head. The lock of hair behind his ear is probably matted with food. That lock of hair always had remnants of Adam’s most recent meal—a victim of the one-year-old’s grab and smear feeding technique.

I don’t know if or how those who loved Adam or claimed they loved him will observe his birthday. It may just be another day to them. And Adam may just be another sad statistic, a young man whose choices outweighed his chances. A young adult whose substance abuse negates any joy he brought or gifts he shared. A young adult who looked to his friends for support.

I know that there are some that think that Adam’s death was his own fault. I know that there are some who should take more responsibility for their part in his death, yet they either can’t or won’t. Those two words— can’t or won’t—represent the greatest failings of all.

As Adam’s mother, the one who bore him and loved him, I can only hope that those who were with Adam in his last hours will honor his memory by not contributing to the deaths of any more. Put away the booze, put away the drugs. Just for one day. August 27. It’s on Friday this year. It’s Adam’s day.