This time of year always makes me think of my brother, the one I never met. Salvatore was a stillborn, arriving and departing from our world 27 years ago today, on March 28th, 1997.
I am what they call a rainbow baby, the name coined for a healthy baby born after infant loss. It is so named because if losing a child is like the worst storm of your life, the new child is said to be like the rainbow that appears after, reminding you of the joy you once lost.
Following the loss, my parents tell me our house on Mohawk Avenue was inundated with sympathy gifts—pre-cooked meals, thoughtful cards, and an array of flowers, including a potted rose bush, which my father stuck in the backyard, too grief-stricken to give it proper care. There it stayed, essentially untouched for the long 18 months between my brother’s death and my birth.
But when my parents brought me home from the hospital, a miracle had occurred. We walked into the home, me for the first time, and in the corner of his eye, my father saw three yellow roses had bloomed as if by magic—one for me and my two sisters.
Though I obviously cannot actively recall the memory, I can oddly feel it. It is somehow not totally lost on me. Maybe it’s because I’ve been told this story so many times and have seen the pictures, or maybe it really was a message from the Great Beyond, which by nature transcends reasonable memory limitations. Either way, I can imagine the silky, butter-yellow petals unfurling with welcoming deposition as if to extend me a warm invitation to the world. I can imagine my parent’s face when they discovered this. My sister’s faces seeing their faces. My brother’s spirit watching all of us. I am not a religious person, but this I have faith in.
It is only recently that I have begun to approach writing about my brother’s death and it’s impact on me and my family, for many years unable to really wrap my head around it, let alone confront it on the page. A few weeks ago, I shared some of what you just read above in a writing workshop, and the response from my peers was unanimously wonderful.
Walking down Eighth Avenue on a cold winter night after that workshop, I removed my hand from my glove to call my mom and tell her I was writing about him. That I had shared our story with others, and that it felt good to do so. I could hear in her voice it made her happy, and that made me happy. Today, for his birthday, the day in which I feel his enduring presence most profoundly, I thought it’d be a fitting time to finally share something here on Substack.
I believe the universe has many ways of communicating with us, one of which is by sending signs. It can sound a little silly. Sometimes these signs are subtle, other times blatantly bizarre, manifesting as something tangible, a feeling, or even a dream.
This time of year reminds me to embrace the act of noticing those messages. Each March I think of my brother. I think of my parents. I think of the rose bush. I think of hope.
In times of sorrow, uncertainty and darkness, all of which seem too prevalent in our world, I instinctively look toward the light. It is as if ingrained in me is the permanent reminder and promise of hope on the horizon. I like to think this is the gift of my brother Salvatore—the gift of an angel watching over me, there from the day I was born, the first sign of his presence concealed in the petals of a yellow rose.
It's great to see you writing about this and commemorating this day. He deserves this and so do you.
🥹🌈