Douglas

Douglas is my cousin, the fourth child and only son of my mother’s oldest sister, my Aunt Harriet. He was born on the 4^th of July 1953 (a Yankee Doodle Dandy), exactly one week after I was born. He was a big baby. Sometime that fall, after my accident, but before Thanksgiving, Douglas died. He had been very fussy, inconsolable actually, for a couple days and Harriet took him for a ride in the car to see if that would calm him. He fell asleep and died. No one ever knew what caused it, Harriet couldn’t bear the thought of an autopsy, and so we say he died of SIDS, although that doesn’t seem quite right.

I think of Douglas every Independence Day, as I’m sure Harriet does (a mother cannot forget her child). And I wonder about him and what his life could have been. I wonder how close we would have been. I wonder, too, about the two babies, born so close together, both struck by tragedy, one dying, and one living. Many believe that some spirits are just too perfect to remain on this earth, that they are so valiant as to not need this proving ground, this probationary state. My mother did not believe me to be any less valiant than Douglas; there were just different plans and purposes for our lives. That seems to make sense.

Douglas visited his sister, Kerry, one night about 5 years later, when she was in distress, staying at a relative’s house and very homesick. He comforted her. It comforted us all to know he was near and mindful of us. I believe we have many of our loved ones, spirits, around us. I have felt their help at times as well as their caring, watchful eyes.

And so each 4^th of July, I remember the cousin I never knew and hope that he can enjoy the fireworks. I imagine them to be a tribute to him and all the other children whose lives were way too short.