Its been four physical winters since Hannah died. A few months after she died I went to a writers’ conference. There were three of us whose children had died; the other two mothers had already birthed pieces that celebrated their children’s lives. But I was a tree the size of a sapling, whose offshoot never was healthy enough to entirely flourish on its own roots. Such a beautiful offshoot, whose branches dipped and swayed with the wind, whose leaves laughed. Her seed quietly matured and shook free, though disease steadily sapped her life, until it finally ceased.
My roots shudder uncertain of purpose; they search deep as the cold winter facilates between low relentless storm clouds and brilliant windy blue. This season is bitterly cold. The seed lies unpertubed beneath the decaying trunk; life incubates within their shell. My roots drink of the deep warmth and my sapling sized branches reach for heaven. They are not dead. The seed is not dead. We wait for the kiss of spring.