Now We Are 6

I have loved A.A. Milne's Now We Are Six poetry collection for a very long time. When I was a teenager and had a little L-shaped desk as an "office" in our basement, I had a copy on the shelf. I remember my dad reading some of these poems to me. I still have my copy, in the hopes my children will let me read it to them one day -- although that day hasn't come (yet).

In his introduction to the book, A.A. Milne (creator of Winnie the Pooh and his friends), writes as if he and his Hundred Acre Wood buddies had written the book together. He writes that the book has taken three years to write, and that any one piece of literature doesn't necessarily represent that we are now six, since we might have written it when we were three.

From A.A. Milne's introduction to Now We Are Six

Milne writes, "[W]e want you to know that the name of the book doesn't mean that this is us being six all the time, but that it is about as far as we've got at present ..."

Well... Amen to that.

Most often I'll say that I can't believe it has been six years since our son Ronen was born. Six years since he came into this world, and six years since everything fractured to bits. Usually if I say I can't believe it's been six years it's because it feels like the time has flown. And, all at the same time, it feels like a lifetime ago that we got to hold and snuggle and worry about this tiny ball of life that was Ronen. Since I birthed him after thirty hours of labor, since they whisked him away in an ambulance, and when we heard him cry for the first time, and lived for nearly six weeks in a NICU hospital room that as I write this I can still feel the smell of antiseptic and Purell in my nostrils like I'm back there again.

The memories are so finite, and yet so endless. There are so few memories, but the hyperawareness that I had in those weeks, and particularly at the end, mean that I can still feel the sensations of Ronen's life as if it were yesterday. And yet, sometimes my dreams (and nightmares) feel more real than the entirety of his life seems to me now.

We visited Ronen's grave in New Jersey on our way home as family from Camp Ramah in New England, where D and J were in camp for the month and I was working for two weeks with N in tow.

Trying to teach four-year-old N about Ronen has been a challenge. All at once he is her brother, her invisible friend, very much alive in her mind and constantly reminding us (because we have to remind her) that he died and he's not coming back. But she spent a whole day at camp looking for rocks so that she could paint them and bring them to Ronen in "His Meadow" (her word for "cemetery").

D, J, and N visit Ronen's grave in 2025. D & J are 9, N is 4.

Having been in the car for four hours, D and J took N by the hand before Bob and I could get out, N took her rocks, and D wrapped her arm around N to walk together to Ronen's grave. I watched my three living children from a distance, taking a verklempt note of just how far we've come, how much they have all grown.

D and J at Ronen's grave (before his tombstone was erected), same age as N is now. At this visit, J got excited about the ant hills in the ground so the ants could "keep Ronen company in there."

The three spend some time at the grave, distribute N's beautifully-painted rocks (OK, I painted some too, but she painted all the "Trimantises"), visit Grandpa Leon's and my great-aunt Marcia's graves too, and then they disperse, walking around the open parts of the cemetery, and D and N ultimately settle under a tree.

When I join them under the tree, giving Bob a private moment at Ronen's grave, N is standing but looks unhappy - arms crossed and knitted eyebrows. "Are you OK, N?" I ask. "I'm mad," says the four-year-old with big brown-hazel eyes. "I am ready to meet Ronen. I am strong because I am four and my arms can hold him. I will sit really still in my lap so he doesn't fall."

D's cheekbones hint at a smile as her eyes sparkle and she faux-whispers loudly, "Does she realize that if Ronen were here, he'd be bigger than her?"

N is sitting now next to her big sister and I blink back tears and smile gently as I kneel at her eye level and tell her, "I am so proud of you for how strong you are. This is our family story - we had a baby, and we don't get to have him back. He is buried in the ground. We are all sad about that. D is right that he would be your big brother if he were still alive, but you're also right, N, that Ronen was only ever a baby and that's how you've seen him in pictures. I am sad you don't get to hold him just like I am sad that we all don't get to have him in our family living in our house."

The visit to the cemetery was this past Sunday, and now it's Wednesday. For the past three days, the four-year-old has been making up songs about Ronen. About who he would have been, and what he would have liked (which, unsurprisingly, is everything that she likes). Today over lunch, N told me she was sad that we couldn't bring Ronen a cake for his birthday. "We can have cake for his birthday," I replied nodding, remembering D & J's instinct to have cupcakes for Ronen's first birthday.

But then, N wasn't satisfied by this idea. "Yeah, but Ronen can't have the cake because he died." She stresses the last word. I think she finally understands. It doesn't stop her from filling the rest of the afternoon with gleeful song about the brother who is her imaginary best friend.

N's constant talk about how strong she is and what she can do "because she's four" reminds me of A.A. Milne's final poem in Now We Are Six:

From A.A. Milne's Now We Are Six, page 102.

Milne concludes, "But now I am Six, I'm clever as clever. / So I think I'll be six now for ever and ever."

I don't think six is the year that will stick for me. But who knows? I do appreciate the reminder that even though these six years have felt like their own eternity, in the grand scheme of things and of life (God willing), we have many more years to go. More lessons to learn, more songs to sing, more lyrics to write.

But for now, Ronen, our beloved third child, thinking about you on what would have been your sixth birthday. I pray that wherever you are you are safe, and you know that you were and continue always to be loved.