At one of my showers before Henry was born, a friend gave me a CD called You Are My Little Bird. I had never heard of the CD or the artist or most of the songs on the CD. It got stacked with a bunch of other baby CDs and forgotten until the friend who gave it to me asked if I liked it. So I pulled it out and played it. And I did like it. Very much.
I started playing it for Henry in the mornings as I fed him. I especially liked tracks 5 and 6 with their messages that everything would be OK, for I was scared and worried about Henry's health and his upcoming surgery. Later, when we were in the hospital for so long, I began to play that CD for him again each morning. (His evening music was a Louis Armstrong/Duke Ellington CD that was very popular with the night shift in the CICU.)
After Henry died, I kept listening. We played it as background music at his wake. I kept it in the car to listen to after yoga or to play when I stopped at the cemetery. Different songs jumped out at me, the lines "Angels in heaven know I love you" and "In the silence that surrounds, deep peace and love are found" spoke to me. I often cried as I listened, but I loved it for what it was and for what it reminded me of.
I hadn't played the CD for Kathleen. She has perhaps heard it in the car, but then I played it for me. The other day, I played it for the first time for her. And I played it again the next day and the next day. I wasn't sure how it would feel to play "Henry's CD" for her, but it was good. Instead of being "Henry's," it felt like a tradition revived, something shared by him and her.
Kathleen is starting to wake up, getting ready to eat again. I need to go change her, warm up her bottle, and put on our morning music.