His Story & Mine: The Three Lions

"There should be a song for women to sing at this moment or a prayer to recite. 

But perhaps there is none because there are no words strong enough to name that moment."
— Anita Diamant

Three times, I've met a lion face to face; the proof is soft, snuggled on my chest with tiny snores and a warm head full of velvet hair. And though I was shaking each time the lion's eyes met mine, I walked away without his teeth marks. I'll tell you how.

  

This time, I was more scared than I had ever been before.When pregnancy aches and pains would keep me up during the hours when the streetlights were glowing, I would hold those fears in my hands, turning them over and over until I had them memorized, examining every facet until I knew them by heart. The rounder my belly grew, the greater my anxiety. I compared it to being tied to train tracks, hearing the whistle screaming closer and closer. And while I could remind myself over and over that a billion women had done this before- that I had done this before, twice, no less- all I could feel was the fear. Friends would encourage me that I was getting so close to meeting my baby boy, that it would all be worth it- but the kicks often felt like echos, second to the task I had before me. I didn't know who I would be holding, but I did know the pain that was coming.

My mom flew in on a Sunday morning. My due date was that Tuesday, so I was glad she made it before he was born. Early Monday morning, I had some real contractions, much different from the Braxton Hicks I'd felt for months. I began to keep track of them for the first time, and realized they were close enough to go to the hospital by the midwives' standards, although I wanted to stay home as long as possible. I told Sky I didn't want him to drive to work. We all waited, unsure. After a few hours, however, they all but disappeared. Even after two previous labors, my body seemed confused. Emotionally, it was exhausting to feel like it was happening, only to have it all come to a halt. I didn't know what to think. But I had a doctor's appointment the following day, so I hoped to hear I had at least made some progress since the last one.

My due date: Tuesday morning at 3 am. I woke up. It wasn't unusual- I had dealt with insomnia for weeks, due to heartburn and an intense need to watch breathing/relaxing videos on YouTube, trying to prepare myself for it all. Around 6 am, I felt the same contractions as the day before. I timed them again, and again, they were close. Sky thought he should go to work, and I agreed- no point in missing days for nothing. My mom asked how I was doing and got herself ready just in case. After a little while, I decided I should probably get ready to go, too. I kept telling my mom that I wasn't sure if I should call Sky or not, until a few contractions helped me decide. Around 10:30 that morning, I called him to come home, then called my dad to pick up Millie and Walter. (I also called my midwife and let her know I needed to cancel the day's appointment, because it looked like I was having a baby instead. She laughed and wished me luck.) Once I knew everyone was in motion, I started to get really nervous, afraid that it would be another false alarm. By the time everyone got there, things had slowed a little. I said goodbye to the kids, and tried to figure out what to do. The contractions got farther apart. My mom brought up walking several times before I agreed, so she, Sky, and I took a very slow stroll around the block, and up and down our street a few times. I had to stop for each contraction, and could tell they were picking back up. They would talk about the features of a house we passed and I would chime in once the pain was over, describing the red flower vine overtaking the front of a home. Finally, I got too hot, and we went back indoors. I did some laps around the dining room table, still nervous to go early and trying to avoid an induction if I ended up getting admitted too soon.

{I took a photo before we left for the hospital- I knew it would be my last pregnant picture.}

But the pain slowly grew stronger, and the thought of having a baby in the car did not ease my anxiety, so eventually at around 2pm, I was ready to go. Once I got settled in the car, it felt more like an emergency than a quick jaunt down the road, and I asked Sky to hurry. Thirty seconds later, we hit the road construction on our street, and I nearly lost it for a second. We pulled up to the ER a few minutes later, and my mom helped me out while Sky parked the car. The receptionist asked if I was in labor, and then asked how far along I was- "Today is her due date!" I heard my mom exclaim. They sent for a wheelchair, and after a long elevator ride, in which everyone in the hospital got on and off, stopping at every floor (I'm looking at you, Karmen with a K), they wheeled me onto the L & D ward.

The pictures of newborn babies, the frosted glass doors, and the room signs brought back a floor of memories from Millie and Walter. I let out a sob, overwhelmed that I was back in the same space again. The nurse told me to change into a gown, and I started to worry again that it would all be for nothing. They quickly checked to see how dilated and effaced I was, then told me I was staying, and got me to a delivery room. I remember Sky pointing out the baby bed at some point, and being slightly surprised and in awe of it, even then.

We talked with the nurse a while, met the midwife on call, and I settled in with a birthing ball, rolling my hips, and looking out the big windows that gave a view of our town and beyond, all green and sunny. Sky and my mom took turns rubbing my back, and the nurse checked on us often, stopping to laugh at The Office episode that was playing. The whole room began to fade into the background as the contractions intensified, and I got into the shower to get more pain relief. There was a bench to sit on, and my mom and Sky held the shower head over my belly while continuing to rub my back. I felt so selfish during this time, knowing they had to be tired, but feeling like I needed them too much to ask them to stop. Sky turned on the worship music playlist I had made a couple weeks prior, and I tried to breathe through each contraction as I listened to the familiar songs from church float in the air, trying not to get emotional when I heard "It Is Well". I didn't even know if I would be present enough to hear any music, but I was so thankful that I could focus on it, and have the constant reminder that God was there with me.

After changing positions in the shower, I made my way back to the ball for just a while, until it was time to get onto the bed. With Millie, I had pictocin and an epidural, and a horrible experience with them. With Walter, I didn't have any medication, and while it was very intense, it was a better decision for me. This time, the only option I wanted them to offer me was the nitrous oxide gas, based on what I had read and what I thought was best for myself. Someone brought it up, and I said yes. They told me how to breathe, but the mask felt a little suffocating, so I did the best I could, trying to find the energy to raise it up to my face as the next wave hit. The midwife had tried to talk to me about breaking my water, but I did not know how I could handle more pain, or less breaks between it. Finally, my mom pulled her aside, worried that I was getting too exhausted. My mom explained to me that it was my choice, but she didn't want me to become to tired to push, and I agreed. After all, it had been over 16 hours since my first contraction at this point- a far cry from the short labor I had hoped for/expected, since Walter was only 5.

  

Once my water was broken, things happened quickly like the midwife promised. She told me there was a little meconium, so the NICU team would be called in just to be on the safe side. I pushed for about an hour and a half, feeling completely drained of energy, very hot, and nervous. Towards the very end, they made me turn onto one side, then another, and then gave me oxygen and fluids. I started to worry about the baby, and started to get nervous about the possibility of a c-section, because it was threatened with Millie. The midwife told me to curl my body around the baby, tuck my chin in, and push, and though I had stopped being able to respond much to anyone hours ago, I heard her voice in the distance and gave it everything I had. 

Once you've had a baby before, you know the signs. I felt as if nothing was happening until that moment when there is a spark that sets the whole room on fire. Suddenly, I heard the midwife say to page NICU. With Sky on one side of the bed and my mom on the other, I heard their encouragement heighten, and everyone's voices got higher. The quiet nurse began to speak up, too.The lamp on the baby bed, which looked miles away, got switched on as the nurses poured into the room. I felt a huge gush and heard a cry. He was here.

  

I don't remember the order of what happened after that. I know the placed him right on my chest, and his crying was a relief. I remember seeing Sky wiping tears from his eyes, and giving me a kiss. I remember my mom holding him for the first time. And when the nurse asked what we bet he weighed, none of us guessed the 9 lbs he was. We all laughed at the size of his footprints, and marveled that when they placed him on his belly on the warmer, he lifted up his head like he had forgotten to be a newborn first. He was born at 12:34 am on August 14- just 34 minutes past his due date. If I hadn't been so stubborn about breaking my water, he likely would have been there right on time.

By the time we got to our postpartum room, it was 4:30 am, and I had been awake for over 24 hours. Sky and my mom were completely exhausted, and while he drove her home and brought our bags up from the car, I held our new son, marveling that it was all over and he was finally in my arms. All of the last year- the surprise of those two pink lines on the test, the papers from the emergency room with "threatened miscarriage" typed on them, the night I thought I was losing him, and all the aches, pains, sleepless nights from the heartburn, and crying desperate tears from the severe nausea- it was all gone. 

I've conquered one of my biggest, deepest fears- three times. When Sky told me he was proud of me, my heart could not have been more full. It's not the length of the labor, the medication used or how big the babies were (although I am certainly not above claiming the extra credit if I get any)...it's that I did it. My body did it. By God's grace, they are all here, all healthy, all wonderful, and I am their mama.

~

Tonight, I was looking at your eyes as you dreamily stared at mine. It's amazing that we share a story together, and that I remember some of it before you, but you'll continue it long after I am gone. You'll never know who I was before we met. But I hope that, someday, I will be able to look down from Heaven and watch your life in full, because my heart will still be with you, loving you. You see, Harry, it's you, Millie, and Walter that make me a mama, and along with your dad, are the people I most adore.

I love you, my darling boy. I am so glad you were made for us, and that God put together those cheeks, the softness of your hair, and your inquisitive, searching eyes just for your dad and I, just so we could be the ones to start you on your journey in this world.

I'm so happy that you're home. 

Our Maternity Photographs

{Photography by kDarling Photography}

 “In your light I learn how to love. In your beauty, how to make poems. 

You dance inside my chest where no-one sees you, but sometimes I do, and that sight becomes this art.” 

― Rumi

Two weeks earlier, I was running my hands over dresses at Goodwill. A soft dress seems like the most comfortable thing to wear these days. I pulled out a minty blue-green that was $5.99, and took it home with me that day.

Not long after, I was talking with our friend and family photographer, Kristin. I say friend, not because she is who we call when I get the itch for updated family pictures, as I'm always desperate to capture the stage that Millie and Walter are in before it disappears forever. She's truly become a friend, because after ten photo sessions- beginning, funnily enough, with maternity pictures when I was pregnant with Walter- there's such an openness and comfortableness with her. She knows us so well, and always finds a way to show Millie and Walter exactly how they look through my own eyes. She also uses light in the most beautiful, indescribable way, and now that she shoots with film (a talent all its own), there seems to be this intangible magic there even more than before.

So earlier this month, I pulled the mint dress from the closet, gathered what I could find for Sky and the kids, and met her at a park down the street. The sun was at the perfect point as it began to set, the air was calm, and the glow and haze around us felt so appropriate.

When I saw the first photo come back from Kristin, I looked at Sky, and said, "Look at us. Look how happy we are." Because despite the physical and emotional toll this pregnancy has taken, we are so very, very happy- deeply n love with each other, with this new baby boy that we'll meet in mere weeks, and with the shape our family is taking. I could not imagine a more beautiful life, and now it's captured on film for us forever.

Thank you, Kristin. It means the world.

 

 

The Buttons

"She was feeling the pressure of the world outside 

and she wanted to see him and feel his presence beside her 

and be reassured that she was doing the right thing after all." 

— F. Scott Fitzgerald

Sometimes, when they ask how I am, I wish I could explain to them about the buttons.

During this deployment, Sky is gone to a lot of people in a lot of places. He is conspicuously absent from his job. The seat beside me at church is consistently empty. All the drills and training at his unit have breezed by without any planning and writing on our calendar for the last year. Emails about tasks to finish and projects to begin are deleted, not pertaining to him far, far away. The list of what he has missed seems to grow by the hour, something I plan to write more about in another post. But the most noticeable parts of his absence were those least noticeable to the rest of the world.

The buttons. I would twist my hand in different directions, hoping to feel the little, round disc and the loop it's meant for. Sometimes, I've called Millie and asked her for help, even though I know she is usually needing to ask me. And after a few failed attempts, I've felt the sting of tears. I would stop to take a breath, and find something else in the closet to slip on. It wasn't about the dress. That didn't matter. It was just one more thing that reinforced the constant of reality now- he wasn't with me.

How can I explain something that is so fused to our year, so intertwined in daily life that it's hard to pull from my chest and hold up to the light? It is every small instance of wishing him here. Forgetting what it feels like to belong to someone, to be one half of two during any social gatherings, fidgeting with my rings to remind myself that he loves me. Feeling sick but having somewhere to be or someone to meet, knowing that if I don't get in the car anyway, I'll have two disappointed kids. Moving my hand towards the other side of the bed and not having his meet mine. Reaching those parenting moments when I'm tempted to lock myself in the bathroom with a hard cider, facial mask, and a podcast, but remembering I'm always on duty. Trying to calm an upset child who is asking to talk to their daddy, but explaining that he will be asleep until hours after they're in bed. Hearing or watching something that is hysterical, but relaying it to him in the past tense, rather than glancing over to see him wiping away tears from laughter. Everything feels past tense these days.

And as for Millie and Walter? I would imagine it's also the little things, like feeling his hands lifting them up in the air, sneaking a sugary snack with him when I have my back turned, or having another soothing presence there for brushing teeth and bedtime prayers. The pride of hanging on to him and thinking he's the greatest ever. Maybe it's also the small victory of tucking their daddy dolls in the closet until the next time he has to go.

What a strange feeling it is to have someone in your life without having their presence there, too. While he's been away, it's as if a pause button was pressed. We can still talk, and laugh, and even argue, but the substance isn't there in quite the same way. Funny, because if you had asked me five or ten years ago, I would tell you that words are all the substance there is, or at least all I need. But something shifted, and I think maybe, there's just as much value in sitting in someone's company, completely silent and still, as there is in all the long conversations in the world. (Come to think of it, there are people in heaven right now that I would love to talk with, but even more, to simply experience again.) To watch someone, to study their features, expressions, and actions, can often conjure up vivid stories in my imagination, because they give much away with those little clues. As simple as it sounds, one of the things I miss most is to have my head on his chest while he twirls a piece of my hair in his fingers. That's become home, and home has been missing for such a long time.

I am so grateful that, other than a few days here and there, we've been able to count on working internet to exchange words. The communication has been pretty steady, and reassuring for that reason alone. But I'm ready for my husband to be home. To say, "Here, I've got it." And one by one, to feel the buttons being pulled through buttonholes, and a gentle pat on the back when every one is done. That's when all is right again.

Yellow Fireflies & Green Corn

"those moments, so

many and so long ago, still come back, but briefly, like fireflies

in the perfumed heat of summer night." 

— Mark Strand

June is supposed to be a month when time slows. We sit on long front porches with glasses of sweet tea, talking a little more slowly, our posture a little more relaxed, with less to do and less to think. That's how it should be, in my mind. But instead, June has been a series of busy moments, of loud, brief thunderstorms, blinding sunlight, and humid nights beginning to glow with the gentle luminescence of fireflies looking wistfully at the stars.

So much has happened since I last wrote- none of it very important but to our little family. Still, there are milestones, memories, birthdays, and long stretches of time apart that compel me to stretch out on my bed and type for a while.

First, we recently wrapped up our beginning year of homeschooling, and more importantly, Millie's kindergarten year. It's strange to think that she was a newborn in my arms nearly six years ago, that those years have gone by like days, and that she will begin first grade in the fall. We spent a lot of time on reading, of course, and there is nothing that compares to witnessing that process. I watched her bloom into reading sentences after sounding out three letter words over and over again. Perhaps most amazing was seeing her handwriting that I've helped form, leaning with her over the lines and the curves until she's confident enough, after a few misspellings, to write "I love you Mommy" on a construction paper card, with magazine scraps cut out and glued to it. She also attended a homeschooling co-op, and it was wonderful to make friends who are learning the same way.

Walter, who still feels like my baby, will be three this month. The last two days, I've sold a dresser and rocking chair to make space in his room for a twin bed. They were both pieces- probably the only ones left- that we used when each baby came home from the hospital. I had a little cry after they were gone. Sky and I haven't completely shut the door to the notion of having one more child, but it's slowly creaking to a close and days like today remind me of that. I was never one to imagine my children, or to dream about how many I would have someday. But when I quickly learned just how fast they grow, my heart doesn't want to forget what it's like with a newborn on my chest, soft and warm and impossibly perfect. Thank goodness Walter still loves to snuggle with me.

{photos by Kristin of k darling photography}

Sky has been away all month, completing more training for his Army career. It's always interesting to see how the time apart will be, because every time he leaves means leaving kids of different ages than what they were the time before. I never exactly know what to expect, and this time was no exception. Millie, Walter, and I were really down when he first left. It's kind of a helpless, lost feeling. Thankfully, we planned swim lessons for Millie during two of the weeks he'd be gone, and that has helped us stay busy and entertained. She finished them up today, triumphant and elated that she can swim underwater now. Walter and I splashed in the baby pool, I got a slight tan and then a less-than-slight sunburn, and we were happy and thankful for the fresh air, albeit in 90 degrees.

The biggest differences with this time away are the quiet nights and subdued moments of the day, when I pause for a breath and remember my husband isn't here. So many times, earlier in our marriage, I would wonder if the only thing keeping us together was the forced time away from each other. But in the early morning hours after he drove to the airport, the tears rolled down my cheeks, and all I could do was whisper, "Thank you, God." I know that my heart needs his, and that is a gift and a miracle. The three of us here are so proud of him, and we're ready for him to come home.

The photos here were shot by someone who has not only been taking pictures for our family since Walter was in my belly, but by someone who has become a friend, too. She's been on much of the journey with us, and though we have had lots of beautiful pictures of the kids as they've grown, I couldn't help but stare at the one of our whole family that she took a couple days before Sky had to go. I love where we are now, and the hope of where we'll be. How blessed we are to be together.

So perhaps June hasn't been lazy and calm the way it is in stories. For us, it's been a time of growth, of beating sun and the smell of chlorine, of long distance phone calls and 'goodnight's from far away, and a time with two little people who seem to be a bit bigger and older every second. It's bittersweet, and it is filled with the broken and beautiful moments that string one day onto the next. The cornfields are so green and climbing high, and if the corn is good, it must be a good summer in Illinois.

Year Six

"A sacrament--like marriage--means living a life better 

than your natural instincts, so that you're modeling God. 

And God never gives up." 

— Jodi Picoult

We were so young, so very young, even though it was only six years ago.

Neither of us knew how to be married. You were foolish and reckless with my heart and left us with a pain that fused together bitterness and regret. I was inexperienced with being a good wife, and left us with a lot of burnt, processed freezer food and a beautiful new baby who cried approximately 23 hours each day. We were supposed to be in that newlywed bliss that we assumed would follow the tiny ceremony in our apartment's dining room with the creeky wooden floor, the breezy sheer curtains we hung for the occasion, and the windows that overlooked a brick, snowy Illinois Street. After we came back from an Italian dinner we could not well afford, we both thought the hard part was over.

Our relationship has been on the brink of breaking many times, and both of us know this well. Marriage is hard, but we have had it harder than many, I think. We've spent much of the time wondering how the bills would be paid, but they always were. We spent time wondering how God could fix our hearts, but He always has. We spent time wondering if we'd make it another year, but we always do. Most would look at six years as a drop in the bucket of marriage, but we know better, you and I.

And here we are, only a little way down the road of the journey. Since those rings were exchanged, we've named a little girl and a little boy, staying awake countless nights for them, learning with them, growing together not just as two, but as a family of four. We've changed jobs- you both in the civilian world and with your military promotions, and me from my secretary's cardigans and heels to a mother at home. You've learned how to fix the car that breaks every few months, and I've learned how to feed us all with recipes that are filling, albeit simple. You're a father who reads bedtime stories in silly voices, and I'm a mother who cries the night before every birthday they have. I barely recognize your baby face and my bleach blonde hair in the few photos we have from our wedding day. Every day is a step towards something better- not shiner, or more impressive, but tarnished with the age of experience and persistent hope. I'm proud that we didn't let go.

I don't think there will be an itch in year seven, because we've only just begun to be married. We've started over so many times that it seems more like our first anniversary. No one can truly say their vows with the full weight of their meaning, not really. It's in the every day that we learn those things-what it really is in the "for worse" part, and what it can really be in the "for better". No one can grasp the hurt that can occur, or the deep laughter, or the common experiences that sew everything together. The beauty of it is that these years, full or lean, cold or warm, crumbling or solid, have all sewn us together, even when we weren't aware.


One of my favorite quotes is this: "Love is a battlefield, love is a war, love is a growing up." (James Baldwin) Six months after you came home from a war, I married you. And six years later, here we are, still fighting for all things good, and growing up into the kind of people who never give up.

Empty Spaces

"You've walked those streets a thousand times and still

you end up here. Regret none of it, not one

of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,

when the lights from the carnival rides

were the only stars you believed in, loving them

for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.

You've traveled this far on the back of every mistake,

ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house

after the TV set has been pitched out the upstairs

window. Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied

of expectation. Relax. Don't bother remembering

any of it. Let's stop here, under the lit sign

on the corner, and watch all the people walk by." 

— Dorianne Laux

I turned onto the main road as I was telling him about it, little yellow leaves trying to keep up with the tires for a brief moment, before they sighed and settled onto the street again. "I picked up some Christmas presents at a lady's house- did I tell you about that buying co-op I recently joined? They had Melissa and Doug toys on sale?- and anyway, her house was big and impressive looking. You know, one of those typical subdivision houses that cost a few hundred thousand and have no shade on the street because the trees are so young?"

My dad nodded from the passenger seat. We have similar taste in houses.

"So I get there, and pick up the boxes that were sitting in her living room, and I realize there is nothing in it but stained carpet and a couch. The next room was just as bare. It was really strange."

Dad chimed in. "I saw the same thing on calls," he told me, referring to his firefighting. "Big, fancy houses that looked impressive, but they couldn't afford a stick of furniture." We speculated about how many had likely gone into foreclosure. So much show in a house, but no comfort of a home. Empty spaces with a sorrowful echo inside, but their stately appearance outside fooled the rest of the world.

And then, this morning, I saw another empty space that made me gasp.

Just across the hall from where we live now, another apartment is familiar, too. It's the one Sky and I lived in right before Millie was born. The most recent tenants abruptly (i.e., sneakily) moved out early last Saturday morning, leaving a few belongings, some empty boxes, and a huge mess for the landlords. I heard them cleaning it this morning, and watched their pickup rumble down the street toward a dumpster.

Instantly, something in me was curious. I opened my front door, staring into the other apartment where that front door had been left wide open. It smelled dirty, the carpet was a mess, and yet I was tempted. I looked around the hall, and stepped two small steps into our old place. I stood there for a moment and surveyed the past.

Empty and silent, with windows open and sun shining through. I thought of all the arguments that had tinted those walls, how there were stains of the our history that I'll never quite be able to scrub clean. If walls could talk, ours would have sobbed, most likely. I thought about how we left for the hospital right before midnight on a Thursday, how Millie was born on a Saturday, and how she was carried over the threshold on Monday. I thought about the lonely nights I spent with just her there, crying every few hours to be fed, or to be held, and how I would cry along with her. I remembered the awkward visits a therapist would make, sitting on the loveseat while I sat with Sky on the couch, trying to bravely say how I felt until I would dissolve into a mess of anger and heartbreak. I thought of the time I made a lasagna, only a few days after moving in, and left the house for a a half an hour as it baked in the oven, returning to blaring carbon monoxide alarms that forced the whole building to evacuate while the firemen roamed our apartment until it was safe. With all the betraying, fighting, and blaming in that apartment, it was never safe. As we slowly added pieces of furniture to the rooms, we also added resentment, pain, and scars.

But this place, just across the hall in the same building, trudging up the same staircase every week to put away groceries? This place is going to be different. While outside, the bricks blend in, looking like any apartment building on the street, the inside is full to the brim. We'll have a life to pack up when we move out- the two sets of chipped white dishes, minus one cracked bowl that recently landed in the trashcan. We'll have scribbled artwork made with Crayolas and chubby, little hands. We'll have a lot more books than we even started out with, which is shameful and glorious all at the same time. There are old quilts folded up in the closet, old dishes hanging daintily on the wall, and old journals stashed under a bed. There are seldom used kitchen supplies packed in shallow boxes, last season's clothes tucked away for the year, and childhood mementos that I can't part with just yet. Mismatched, decorated with clearance Target furniture, and usually covered in small fingerprints, our home is nothing to the world, but it is full to the brim of these memories. 

When we leave what we have here, it will be for a house, maybe one with a vast yard for the kids and a big, shady tree or two for me. But this place won't be empty. If these walls could talk, they would tell you of the hurt that moved in, and the hearts that painstakingly took one step forward and two steps back until they finally had enough strength to outrun old ghosts. They would tell you of hurried mornings before church on Sunday, and quick dinners before choir practice on Monday. It turns out that the natural, easy pace of children growing is actually a messy, heartbreaking, intentional, day-in-and-day-out task, and this little apartment is full of that. It's full of these first days of school, of trying new recipes, of growing waistlines. It's full of Christmas presents hidden on a high up shelf, and board books abandoned across the couch. It is where we brought another small one over the threshold. In a few years, we'll pack everything and load it in a truck for a new destination. Yet I have a feeling it won't be as empty as when we moved in. 

There is so much here, in the air around us. While the weather turns chilly, our home is staying warmed, a refuge. And when I shake out the rugs, sending out specks of dust to turn into brilliant sunbeams, I wonder if the soft, filmy glow is what we'll leave someday.

An Open Door

"Happiness is something that comes into our lives through doors we don't even remember leaving open." 
— Rose Wilder Lane

They would haunt me nearly every night.

No matter how happy the day, the sun would set, the moon would rise, and all that has happened before would rush into the room. A weight would settle on me, pinning me down to grief. I could hear his breaths from the pillow next to mine, and instead of feeling gratefulness, I felt bitter that I was forced to relive the unhappiness night after night. His dreams were peaceful, but mine would not let me forget, and I woke up crying so many times. How could I let go when something bigger than myself had taken hold of me that strongly? Those nights were lonely, set on fire with old rage, and left me battle weary.

And then, last night, I had a new dream. I dreamt that he and I renewed our vows. Happy music was playing, we were in love, and we danced and danced. I was wearing some sort of lovely dress, and he looked handsome. The evening was sweet and purple and warm, There were strings of white lights over our heads, and our hearts were so full. The people who gathered around watched us as if we were newlyweds. I felt the kind of pure elation that I hadn't felt in so long- not like a familiar, old friend returning, but a new friend that appeared out of the blue.

It's strange how those unconscious thoughts, and those that slip quietly into the empty spaces of the day, can shape a life. I no more chose the happiness than I chose the sadness, but both found me. Some days, the raw memories were all I could think of, while other days went by without them, but they would always find me in the nighttime. Maybe my body is tired of being sad, or maybe there has been enough life gone by that my thoughts have grown wings again. I don't know how it works, gaining a little hope back at a time, but I gasp for that air as much as I can now. I had forgotten how to take a whole breath. Is this how hearts heal and minds rest? I hope so.

There is an open door in the evening. He steps through it after a day at work, closes it behind him, and hugs the ones who are waiting for him in the hall. He rounds the corner. I am happy.

I have not felt that for so long.