May is a minefield of memories. Twice, I walked through May with my unborn children and my desperate wish. At the end of May, I laid down my plans, twice. I’m always surprised, every year, by the wave of strain and melancholy that hits me on these memory days.
My heart remembers, my body remembers what my mind forgets.
These early weeks were the golden days, bright spring days with the restless kicking of my sons. Strawberries and sunshine, watching my stomach swell with the very sweetest dream. Later, May would become a fight, a grasping, terrified fight to hold on to what I had. It was a fight I lost, and even with all the redemptive years, new miracles, and personal growth, it will never not be a loss.
I tiptoe through these sweet altars, the places they were, the person I was. Heaven is never more real to me than these days of aching and longing for what I held.
may is the bittersweet
days of birdsong and sunlight
and aching even in the joy
may is treasures lost and found