year two

Another year has gone by and it could have been yesterday. It could have been yesterday that I was in the hospital, so certain that everything would be fine. And then a few hours later, so certain that nothing at all would ever be fine again. It has turned out that neither of those thoughts are true—of course the extremes are never the reality. Everything will never be fine again, but some things are.

I can’t believe that two years can feel simultaneously so long but also like no distance at all. I can still feel your tiny legs kicking, can hear your heartbeat on the monitors. I can remember the excitement and stress of getting our lives ready to welcome you, having a crisis trying to pick out your nursery furniture because I wanted it to be so perfect. All our hopes for our incredible miracle baby and the life we would have together are still there in my heart—where they will stay, forever unfulfilled. I now know the meaning of “hope deferred makes the heart sick”. Although this hope isn’t exactly deferred, it is worse than that. Even when I see you in heaven, I think there will still be scars on my heart from the loss of our life together. Apparently there will be no crying, but I don’t quite know how I’ll still be me if I’m not crying the first time I see you again.

Today we will sit under the magnolia trees in Central Park and think about you. Some people who would have been your aunties and uncles will be with us, and we will all remember the hopes and dreams we had for you, Magnolia Jubilee Caldwell. We will mourn your loss, and celebrate that you exist, and that one day we will be with you again.

I will also mourn that climate change (or just weather?) has yet again caused your namesake trees to mostly bloom early instead of on your birthday. I think your dad gets worried about how invested I am in every magnolia tree I see. We picked your name because magnolias aren’t just flowers that come and go—they are trees that grow big and strong, that provide shade in the summer. They are much more permanent feeling than most spring flowers. But now when those pink flowers start blooming all over the city I feel the pang of disappointment that they will fall so quickly. It feels too reminiscent of your life—the most gorgeous display of God’s goodness and power in my life, the height of beauty, everything everything everything that I had prayed for… But for such a short time, and then the bloom of your life was over.

And just like the magnolia trees, the flower of your life is gone but the tree remains. My baby girl, you are rooted in my life forever, your presence, your personhood will never be erased. There are leaves growing from your life even now. They are hard to see—tiny little green bits that provide very little shade from my scorching grief right now. Maybe one day I will be able to bask in the cool relief of your legacy in my life. For now I am just grateful that you are remembered, not just by me but by so many. And I’m grateful that for the month leading up to your birthday people all over New York City unknowingly have your name on their lips as they talk about the magnolias blooming and take photos and have picnics under the trees.

Two years is too long without you.