Spring

Yesterday, I cleared space for William's garden.

Last year, we had vegetables. Last year, the kids helped me plant and water and harvest tomatoes and cucumbers, broccoli and spinach, zucchini and eggplant.

This year, since I don't have my babe in arms and I'm not too busy to dig in the dirt like I thought I would be, we're creating a forever garden for our William. I chose my favorite perennials - daisies, black-eyed susans, poppies, lupine, yarrow...and, of course, forget-me-nots and sweet william.Today was for digging, preparing. Next week, I'll plant flowers and leave room for a marker, something with my little man's name.

I can't choose what yet. Not yet.

Being outside hurts. Everything is coming to life, and watching flowers come up instead of watching my son grow is going to hurt, too, I imagine. But I want something for him, something that will remind me, when the pain begins to change (I hear it does, I'm holding onto that hope) that I did something to remember him. I want to have somewhere to go, a place to honor his memory a year from now, two, three...

Three seasons I spent anticipating this one. I got pregnant in late summer, and packed and moved our whole house last August. As the leaves turned, I finally unpacked the last box, and by the time the snow fell, I was growing big and playing "games" with my baby - poke and prod. I shivered my way through February and thought, "Spring will be here soon. My baby will be here soon." Just a few more months. One more turn of the seasons.

Now spring is here, and my baby is gone.

But the robins are everywhere. Everywhere. I saw the first one on the day William was born dead, hopping across our back lawn, cocking a curious black eye in my direction. Harbinger of spring. Messenger of death, now, at least for me.

I sat in a chair on the patio for over an hour yesterday, watching them. An hour. Still and quiet, I just sat. I didn't think about all the things I needed to do, or feel moved, even, to get up and do them, like I normally would. I sat and watched the wind move the trees, just starting to show the buds of their leaves. I sat and watched the robins searching for food - they were incredibly happy I'd unearth a smorgasbord of worms for them to choose from in the dirt for William's garden. I sat and watched the shadows change as the sun moved.

Nothing seems important now. All of the work I did in preparation for his arrival - keeping the house clean, just in case I went into labor that day, stocking the house with food, catching up and getting ahead with work - none of it mattered. Who cares now if the dishes are done? Who cares if the floor needs vacuuming? Who cares?

Now I just sit and stare and cry and wonder how I missed it before, how incredibly vulnerable we are, how fragile life really is. Nature wins. Now I can't do anything but breathe and feel alive, even if it hurts. I don't have a choice anymore. That veil has been pulled aside, and I can't unknow what I know now. I can't even keep the tears from falling, like rain to wet the soil.