There’s a chill in the air, and where a month ago I hugged the trees to keep myself and my babies in the shade and away from the blazing sun, the kiss of sunshine on our skins now is beautiful, blissful and very welcome.
The seasons are changing, and as one wanes and another rises, I find myself tracing my children’s development by them. My baby is six months old now. She was born in March and spent almost the first three months of her life in rain. We had a brief summer and now, as the leaves begin to fall to the ground, I see infancy disappear in the wake of her leopard crawl across the floor.
We’re also faced with a tragic loss in our family right now. It seems so fitting. The dying of the summer, the dawning of the cold months, the hope of a distant reunion with spring…it matches what I feel inside. The end of something. The cold, bitter, hard mourning. The dawn of a distant hope, where memory comes back with a bitter sweet sting, and for a brief time, I know it will all be okay again. Because that’s what happens. For everyone else, life just goes on. It’s only for those left behind that the winter seems longer, colder, starker.
I feel the air stinging my face as I walk, holding my baby close, holding my daughter’s hand, and I realise the warm tears are leaving icy streaks down my cheeks.
“Are you okay, Mama?” my big girl asks.
“I’m okay, Baby. I’m just sad.” I squeeze her hand.
“Because your mommy is sick?”
Yes, Baby, because my mommy is sick.
“If I give you a kiss and a cuddle, will that make you better?”
Yes, Baby, for the moment, that will make everything better.