I listened to the coffee percolate as I looked out the window at the wet snow that hung heavy on branches of spring blooms. Nine days until May and we woke up to nearly half a foot of snow. I wondered if the rose bushes that had started to bud or the clematis vine that had turned green would survive this late blanket of winter. Snow a month into spring isn’t unusual in Ohio, but a deep snow is. Two weeks ago, I sunbathed on my back patio in my swimsuit. Today, the same chair I had sat in with a book was buried under fresh powder.
My kids were moments from waking and my husband already gone to work. I sipped my hot coffee and took in the blue hue that washes everything moments before dawn on a snowy morning. A quick check of text messages and Instagram stories and it was easy to most were lamenting this late snow. And yet, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of peace about it.
I lost my third baby on the first day of winter and although it’s officially been spring for a month, the snow this morning felt like a reminder that while life will keep moving forward, the life of that baby will not be forgotten.
Miscarriage is such a deep well. It’s not easy to see what it entails and you often don’t know unless you’re right in it.
I’ve started and stopped writing about miscarriage many times since mine. I think this start and stop is rooted in a feeling that I need to have a complete and polished thought on what happened. A desire to write from scars instead of wounds. I’m realizing that miscarriage isn’t the kind of thing that has a final thought. It can’t be bundled up and contained into a neat package. I now recognize that miscarriage may be the kind of thing that ripples through the rest of a mother’s life.
My kids ate their breakfasts and begged to play in the snow. As much as I did not want to go outside in freezing temperatures at the crack of dawn, I also knew it may be the last chance I’d have to play in the snow with my kids at these ages. The last time I’d get to pull boots and hats and mittens on my 3- and 5-year-old. See them catch flakes on their tongues and lay on their backs with arms and legs outstretched, making angels.
I felt peace about this unseasonably late snow because it seemed like some kind of poetic reassurance that things were going to be alright, but also because it felt like a mirror to parenthood, and life. You can plan and anticipate and set expectations, but life throws curveballs. And then the only thing you can do is pull on your boots and hats and mittens and embrace it. Things may not go as you planned or anticipated or expected, but they can still be beautiful.