There’s No Good Season for a Child to Die
I hated spring for making the world beautiful again without Ana here to see it
We are in full spring now in New York. My tulips are bursting open and the Star Magnolia tree has already lost half its flowers. They’re spread across my greening lawn like a puddle of pink frosting. The nectarine and cherry trees are both blossoming. The goldfinches are goldening. The raw morning chill is softening.
I’m watching spring return from my office window as I do every year. The window faces my lawn and the birdfeeders and our narrow country road. It’s the window where my daughter, Ana, once watched the seasons unfold. I turned her bedroom into my office about six months after she died. This spot by the window is located about four feet to the left of where Ana took her last breath.
I don’t dwell on this memory, but it does pop into my brain a lot. It invades my thoughts as I check email then pause to stare out the window, before getting to the day’s work. This image of Ana, of the place where she died, comes more often when the seasons change.
Spring is a time I once loved not only because both my kids were born in spring, but because I was also born in spring. It is a season where we can finally sigh into softness and color, a season of youth and life and…
