Mary loved birthdays more than anyone I know. She would plan extravagant celebrations which usually included her friends going on some adventure with her. She preferred belated birthday gifts because they made the celebration last longer for her. Some of the most memorable days she planned included llama trekking, a murder mystery evening, and a trip to Santa Fe for her 40th.
As someone who never celebrated birthdays as a child, I found Mary's delight in birthdays rather fascinating. I found it strange that she got excited about wrapping paper--she had an entire drawer dedicated to beautiful and interesting papers and ribbons. It was important to Mary to wrap things beautifully, and she always admired her friend Julia's sense of style when it came to gift-wrapping. I was intrigued by the way she made sure people knew her birthday was important to her and that she wanted to celebrate with them. I loved that she created adventures for herself and was bold enough to ask others to join her. She never lost that child-like excitement for celebration. It wasn't a self-centered excitement, it was a celebration of friendship and thankfulness for the gift of life.
One year...I think it was the year after Macy was born...I forgot Mary's birthday. I called her the next day for a chat and she made mention of getting together with some friends the day before. The penny didn't drop quickly for me, and so she added, "You know, for my birthday." I was profusely apologetic, and she graciously replied with a tinge of sadness, "Don't worry, you've never forgotten before." And believe you me, I never forgot again. Not because I didn't want her to be upset, but because when someone you love loves something as much as Mary loved birthdays, it's hard not to join in the fuss.
Her glee didn't stop at birthdays. Mary was a giver. She liked to pick out unique tokens of her affection. For our wedding, she chose four mismatched bud vases for Tim and me because she loved having flowers around the house and thought I would enjoy doing the same. She gave Cerys a hand-knitted strawberry hat when she was born and baked me my favorite chocolate cake. She gave me a little yellow picture frame to commemorate our trip to Cornwall. When I was about to give birth to Addien, she organised a few friends to send me gifts and letters...a shower in a box...to celebrate the birth. The list could go on and on. It seems as I look around my house that many of my favorite things came from Mary or from her influence.
Tomorrow is Mary's birthday. Facebook will at some point kindly remind me that I should post on her wall to wish her a happy birthday. I will not write on her wall because it feels too mystical...to write on her wall feels like writing to a ghost, and I am all too sure that she is not hanging around here. I don't know what she's doing, whether she is lifeless and waiting for a resurrection after the apocalypse, or whether she is partying in heaven, gardening and chatting with her dad and the Bronte sisters. But I know she is not here. I am not to the place yet that I can fondly remember Mary tomorrow and be thankful for all she contributed to my world. There will be some of that, maybe even a lot of that, depending on how I feel when I wake. But there will most certainly be heartache, as I wonder how on earth she can be gone--it still doesn't seem possible that a healthy, vibrant, 40-something woman can wind up in hospital one day and be dead two weeks later.
My grandfather always ended any suggestion of the future with "God-willing". "See you tomorrow, God-willing." "We're going to Texas for our holiday, God-willing." He lived with a deep sense of life's frailty that I have always known to be real and true, and yet, I was rocked when brought face-to-face with its certainty.
Tomorrow, God-willing, I will grieve, and I will celebrate, and I will eat chocolate digestives, and I will remember Mary Marshall.
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