“A  Day  To  Remember”    

By:  Joyce  Williams  

       

 

  The  old  grey  Cadillac  rolled  to  a  stop  in  front  of  the  small  frame  house  on  the  

tree  lined  street  in  Texas.  The  day  was  crisp  and  clear  and  the  temperature  was  

rising.  

 

  Our  family  had  lived  ten  years  with  a    sentence  of  death—because  of  a  blood  

transfusion  containing  the  HIV  virus.  I  recalled  how  our  daughter,  Lydia,  had  found  

comfort  in  rituals  following  the  death  of  her  nine-­‐month-­‐old  son.  

  On  the  first  anniversary  of  Bryan’s  death,  Lydia  planned  a  ceremony—read  

portions  of  his  funeral  service  and  released  balloons.  Another  year  the  family  

planted  a  tree.  Frantically,  she  looked  for  ways  to  deal  with  her  grief.  

 

  When  Lydia’s  own  date  with  death  came  creeping  close  she  capitalized  on  

her  love  of  the  sea  and  her  older  son’s  love  of  dolphins.  The  mammal  collection  grew  

and  shortly  before  her  death  Lydia  located  a  final  gift—a  bronze  of  three  jumping  

dolphins.  On  a  video  of  favorite  stories  she  encouraged  Matt  to  look  at  the  dolphins  

and  remember  how  much  she  loved  him.  

 

  So  today,  June  21st—Lydia’s  birthday.  Matt,  in  the  end  stage  of  AIDS,  invited  

his  uncle  David  and  me  to  come  to  Dallas  to  celebrate  his  mom’s  birthday.  I  didn’t  

know  what  Matt  had  in  mind  but  I  knew  he  had  the  day  carefully  planned.    

 

  Shortly  after  we  arrived,  Matt’s  best  friend,  Zach,  and  his  family  came  

bringing  a  birthday  cake.  The  white  letters  on  chocolate  frosting  read:  Happy  

Birthday,  Lydia,  we  miss  you!  Under  the  lettering  were  three  jumping  dolphins.    

 

  After  pizza  and  cake,  the  agenda  for  the  ceremony  was  announced.  First,  we  

would  watch  four  videos.  One  showed  a  rolly-­‐polly  Matt  at  age  two  and  a  half  in  the  

park  with  his  mom,  his  doctor  and  her  three  children.  As  Matt  got  to  the  top  of  the  

slide  he  announced  loudly  to  himself,  and  all  the  other  kids:  “I’m  not  as  scared.”    

 

  The  next  video  was  a  professionally  made  account  of  Bryan’s  House-­‐  a  home  

conceptualized  by  Lydia  to  serve  HIV  positive  children.  The  home  was  named  for  the  

first  child  in  Dallas  County  to  die  of  AIDS.  Tears  streamed  down  my  face  as  I  recalled  

the  five  months  Bryan  lived  after  being  diagnosed  with  HIV.  Memories  flooded  my  

mind  and  Matt’s,  I  suspect,  for  Matt  decided  not  to  watch  the  next  video.  This  one  

was  made  of  Bryan  the  day  before  he  died.  

 

  During  a  pause  in  the  videos,  Matt  asked  each  of  us  to  recall  a  special  memory  

of  his  mom.  Mine  was  of  the  young  girl  whose  French  braids  had  grown  so  long  she  

could  sit  on  them  and  the  day  she  decided  to  have  them  cut.  Her  ambivalent  feelings  

about  her  new  look  were  fresh  in  my  memory.    

 

  As  the  afternoon  progressed,  Matt’s  strength  faded.  He  asked  to  lie  down  on  

the  couch  to  watch  the  last  video—his  favorite!  This  was  the  recording  of  his  mom  

reading  his  favorite  stories—  The  Giving  Tree  and  The  Little  Prince.    

 

  When  Matt’s  dad  asked  that  I  read  the  book,  I  Miss  My  Little  Brother,  I  

agreed.  Lydia  had  written  it  for  Matt  after  Bryan’s  death.  As  I  sat  beside  Matt  and  

turned  to  the  first  page,  he  began  to  read.  I  recalled  how  Lydia  had  coped  with  her  

approaching  death  by  writing  poetry,  story  books  for  Matt  and  notes  of  

encouragement  to  family  and  friends—in  spite  of  her  pain  an  failing  eyesight.    

 

  To  end  our  day,  each  person  chose  a  different  colored  helium  balloon.  Matt  

wanted  purple  because  it  was  his  and  his  mom’s  favorite  color.  We  carried  him  

outside  in  his  wheelchair.  One  at  a  time  we  released  our  balloons.  Ten  -­‐  eleven  –  

twelve  -­‐  the  colors  brilliant  against  a  cloudless  sky.  The  air  currents  moved  the  

colored  specks  in  a  fan  shape  across  the  horizon.  Then  the  specks  began  to  shift.  

Slowly,  as  we  watched,  the  balloons  began  to  realign  themselves.  In  a  moment  David  

shouted,  “Look,  the  balloons  have  made  a  perfect  ‘L’.”  Soon,  the  newly  formed  “L”  

disappeared  from  sight  

 

  What  a  day  to  remember!