The End

One of my favorite websites recently featured a poem called The End by Rabindranath Tagore. The poem is written in the voice of a baby who has died, and he comforts his mother that he is not truly gone. He says, “I shall become a delicate draught of air and caress you; and I shall be the ripples in the water when you bathe, and kiss you and kiss you again.”

I really liked this poem because it wasn’t of the horrid “angel in heaven” variety that I’ve most often run across. But I had a really hard time relating to the poem because, in truth, I don’t feel that Julian is near me. For me, Julian is a heavy, heavy absence in the world. He is the black hole at the center of my heart. He is just gone, and pretty thoughts about moonbeams and ripple kisses won’t ever make that better.

But the poem ends with the query, “Where is our baby?...He is in the pupils of my eyes, he is in my body and in my soul.”

Perhaps I can live with that. Julian’s birthday is fast approaching and I’ve been remembering the last days of my pregnancy and the terrible, dark time I spent in the hospital. I am definitely not the same person I was last year. I am older, sadder, damaged. Maybe a little wiser. My body bears the marks of childbirth, and my heart carries the scars of grief.

So yes, Julian is in my body and in my soul. Or more specifically, he can be found in that space of difference between who I was and who I have become.

Spring Fever

Spring has burst into full bloom here in Wilmington. Our azaleas are a riot of pinks, reds, corals, and delicate blushing whites. The wisteria vines have flowered in all the trees, adding a lavender sheen to the woods around our house. Flowering boxwood trees, cherry blossoms, tulips, late-blooming daffodils—all now grace our yard with spring color.

How beautiful, you must be thinking. Yes. But I'm not going to show you a picture of the flowers. The photos here show the thick layer of yellow pollen that has covered every possible surface: cars, walkways, patio furniture, our lungs, etc.

Scott has cleaned off one side of the garbage can. That's not dust. It's pure pollen.

Here you can see the yellowish pollen that has collected on our tile porch.

Everyone I know here is wheezing, sneezing, and coughing from the botanical onslaught. Or, like me, suffering from allergy-induced sinus headaches. I guess that's the price for all that beauty!