Jack's birth turned March into an occasion in our home. Something to celebrate after the long, cold winters. But now, when March comes, I feel like somehow I'm the fool. I see beautiful purple crocuses popping up, which must have been hidden by snow just 2 days ago, and I instantly think of rebirth, and beauty, and hope. And I know that hope is there, always, even when it's covered up, or hard to recognize. But now it's married to despair. The despair of a mom who thought life would turn out differently for that baby-- so smart, so beautiful, so winsome-- I mean, how could it not?
The despair sucks energy out of me, even as the days are getting longer and the sun shines brightly for the first time in forever. So in March I put fewer things on my to-do list each day, and I scheme about how early is just too early to climb into bed to gorge on ice cream and Netflix. When a show ends, I reflexively go right to the next episode, staying up far too late trying to get lost in the lives of characters so loathsome and despicable I must ask myself why they get to live-- even frozen inside a flat screen-- for 20, 30, or even 50 more episodes, why they merit time and attention and space in the universe, when Jack has floated off into the ether?
And I think ahead to September, when my book will finally come out. September, with its smell of new school supplies and the excitement of new beginnings. September, which took Jack on a sultry yet dangerous afternoon. This book, Rare Bird, was birthed out of Jack's death. And it provides a little something to look forward to in that once promising yet now despised month. I wonder if for me, and maybe for someone else, it can be like a crocus, hearty and determined, peeking out of a mound of wretched, dirty snow.
