Paint By Numbers by Amanda Duffy
And just like that I stand holding her paint brush, it bristles moments from finding themselves submerged for the first time. Devastatingly, instead the paint is dried up, numbers faded from my sight, and the image left to my imagination. A blank slate when just moments before, the brush’s bristles were hovering above the first color of paint, eagerly anticipating being submerged for the first time. This marking the start of your life’s paint by numbers. Parents get the honor to start the painting and leave its remainder to the child to fill in as they grow and expand.
Parenting your dead child is like painting by numbers but there are no numbers to paint by… All the rules and directions have been lost. How does one know what color comes next? What is the image we are trying to complete when the very image, the baby we grew, died? We are left guessing. We are left guessing what their favorite color is. Is purple supposed to fill in this space? What about green? Maybe it’s yellow? Maybe years 2, 3, & 4 I’ll use purple, and years 5, 6 & 7 maybe orange? Does this look right? What if I made a mistake? I can’t start over; even though I’d give almost anything for a do-over. Besides, it might result in a living you. A paint by number I can see come to fruition in living color.
The image we are promised is clear, each year gets a distinct color. Some years we use the same color, filling in slowly and surely until finally, after all the blood, sweat and tears, there is a complete, full image in front of us. The image in front of us is unique and beautiful. Even a parent who isn’t an artistic person can look at the painting and know exactly what it is. It’s their child, grown and in living color. Even in this image, there are some spaces painted in with colors unintended, often signifying a time of growth or struggle. Ultimately, those spaces add depth and complexity to the image. It’s what makes that painting uniquely defined. It’s what makes that child uniquely themselves.
When our children are ready, we hand the brush over to them. It’s their turn to fill in their numbers for themselves. It’s a rite of passage. Unfortunately, some of us forever hold the brushes for our children. An honor that I am profoundly grateful to have and one that carries an impossibly heavy burden.
When my child tragically died, her canvas was wiped clean. The image that was is now gone. It’s tempting to quit painting because, as her mother, I am left guessing with no distinct confirmation that I have chosen the colors correctly. No little voice telling me “Mama! I love the color NEON PINK! Use more of that!”. No little voice reassuring me that I am helping to complete the picture in the way intended. I’m solely using blind intuition, pain and deep abiding love.
I am one of the few that carries Reese’s brush. There is a beautiful understanding knowing that her painting will be complete the same day as mine, our stories ending together. Bonded by life and death.
More from the author, Amanda Duffy:
My daughter, Reese Christine Duffy was born still on Nov 2nd 2014, just 16 hours shy of our scheduled delivery because of a double nuchal cord. I honor Reese's legacy in many different ways but writing is constant that intimately bonds me to her across the great divide.
