It has been so many weeks, and yet not many at all. I have carried you for nine months. Together we have felt the days turn from ice, to fire, and back to ice again. You push a stubborn foot at the skin beneath my ribs and you are growing, and turning, and getting ready.
I am getting ready, too.
I drove down the hill from an appointment with our midwife today and the late winter afternoon had the sky colored pastel pink and a liquid kind of hazy. There was fog spilling like a frozen sea in the distance, over the hills, the tops of the waves painted orange and milky golden by the setting sun. Winter is empty, empty, empty. Starved of leaves and life and color. But it is strange to see what beauty can be held between empty palms. There is a quiet magic in the bare tree bones smiling gap-toothed and wild, gnarled grey ground gilded gold by fallen leaves, the rush of hasty daylight, the quick heaviness of night. Your sister was born into a damp season, one of abundance and harvest and reds and yellows singing from the treetops. Your season is beautiful, too. Perfectly empty and clean and ready to be filled by the warmth of you.
Time is moving slowly. Time is moving quickly, too. I am nearly a mother of two. I am a mother of two already. I've felt a great urgency lately, as you twist and shove between bones so strangely fit for holding you. Aspen was the first, and she came and conquered the Motherland and made me hers. I was changed, all at once, and it was painful, and it was beautiful, and it’s taken until now to realize just how magnificent I have become.
Things are going to be different this time. I am needing, and I am fragile, and I am deserving of care and help and warm, healing hands. It took 28 months to learn, but I know now. You will come, and I will let you shape me gently, surely, between kneading, milk-sticky fingers. But you will not break me, sweet boy.
I am a mother, now. I am your mother already.
And together, in the pastel emptiness of winter, we wait.