Baby

I swore off Christmas 
this year, swore off the emptiness
of celebrating without my Beloved. No
tree, no decorations, and God 
forbid, no carols. Music is an instant
portal to tears. I have walked in 
and straight out of coffee
shops playing any music, much less
“I’ll Be Home For Christmas.”
 
But a tree arrived anyway, a cast-off,
small and lovely, an Augie tree, 
named after the grand-dog. 
At the insistence of a six-year-old,
decorations were pulled from the shelf.
Eva took charge. I suggested using
the numbered ornaments, not 
mentioning how they marked
the years we had together.  
 
Then I heard a children’s sermon online
about the comfort of holding hands,
how it helps to know someone is with you
when you’re afraid. And I thought of my 
Beloved’s hand over mine, and how his
touch could instantly release my fears. 

The grown-up message was about the messiness
and difficulty of having a baby. I remembered the
birth of my boys. Just as it seemed the pain 
was beyond bearing, a new life appeared. 
You cannot unbirth this life (why would you?)
yet nothing will ever be the same.
 
Even in the desolation of this pain, 
there has been no emptiness. In these 
days of my nativity - to my astonishment - 
a tiny fist has taken hold, wrapped itself
fiercely around my finger. Small and vulnerable, 
this new life needs nurture and
care. This baby, our baby, needs
me. I am filled with wonder. And for the
first time since my Beloved’s departure,
a spark of resolve streaks across the
dark sky like a shooting star. I know how to 
do this. We have been here before. 

B&W photo by Megan Bagshaw, Unsplash