8. holes Two years ago I was driving to the ball fields, pregnant and swollen. My children were in the backseat, and the song "Hey Jude" played from the stereo. I listened to that song many times in my pregnancy, as we planned to name our baby Jude; it only seemed right
7. redheaded epiphany I once loved a little boy named Owen. I loved him from his first breath to his last, and I loved him for a million little seconds in between. I have never known how to talk about Owen’s death, so I mostly don’t. Trauma wrapped its claws around
6. the salt plains The leaves outside my bedroom window were turning red and gold. My annual October feelings of wretchedness and grief had begun to stir already; it was the end of October when I lost my son five years before. I had a tough personal challenge to face: it was time to
5. turning on a dime Having kids was for schmucks; I was sure of it. I never wanted to have children. Raising kids seemed like a ceaseless babysitting job to me, and I was never the babysitting type. My sister and friends reveled in caring for other people’s children. I was the babysitter who
4. maría the guide There is just something about being mothers, about wanting to know where our children are and that someone is looking out for them. Checking on the whereabouts of one's children equates to solace and safety– especially when they are young– and knowing they are secure means life can continue. For
3. peppermint swirls When people describe what the year 2020 was like for them and how it makes them feel, it seems generally agreed-upon that it was a year unlike the rest. For me, 2020 was a swirl of unpredictability, victory, challenge, boredom, grief, intimacy, and isolation. It was each of these, and
1. the chrysalis I turned my head toward my son’s voice as he walked slowly across the field toward me. “Mom, look what I found! It’s a monarch caterpillar!” Shielding my eyes from the sun, I spied my son holding several stalks of milkweed, and on one of them crawled a
