Bench

Downright exhausted, you fretted, you cried, you fought comfort. And so I walked with you and hummed. The sun pressed warm, slanted onto your baby face. One minute, two, and you slumped, head soft on my chest. Sleep had won, and all was peace.

I found a little path, once well-worn perhaps, but not so now. I walked with you toward the sunlight in a little clearing--a pond, a bench, a birdhouse. I sat and closed my eyes and listened to the peepers. The peepers and the birds.

The grief comes in flashes now more often than days' lengths.

Heaven seemed like it was on the other side of trees. And you, baby, you in my arms were the one solid thing keeping me here on this side. The warm weight of a human only months-old, born to joy and sorrow and beauty and brokenness. It is hard to imagine that someday you, too, will have to learn how to lose.

But for now, there is such peace in your little heartbeat and your chubby calves, your curled-up fingers and the steady sound of your breathing.