Around 18-24 months the bereaved begin to move on… to get organized, start enjoying themselves and stop feeling guilty about this positive feeling.

It’s 13 months. It’s the 13th of July. Will died on February 13th. Tiger died on June 13th. I posted on Glow today- it was the 13th response. I feel very 13- odd, uncomfortable, prime as in I can’t be  divided by any other but myself, alone. But don’t be superstitious.

My body should have been able to handle it. I should have gone to a different doctor…. even after I looked for another doctor, after the surgery when he asked me to stick with him. I should have known. I should have gone private.I should have been on bedrest. I should have treated that long sought after pregnancy like it was glass.  Boys don’t take to me. I should be better, further along, clearer, stronger, more joyful. I should have protected my family and not gotten sloppy. I should have demanded to go to Cornell with Will. I should have demanded that they let us see Tiger.

I imagine them grown up all of the time. I imagine them as young men and that is when I most miss them.

I want someone to blow fairy dust on me and make me really sleep, feel joy, make me nicer, sprinkle me with understanding.

If I can be superstitious, after 40 years, of the number 13 why not put some faith in fairy dust?

A reversal? A surprise. A country and western twang.

So I’ve added boys to the mix of babies I’ve held. In all its complication it was delightful. I so love babies. And their moms and the infant eyes looking up at you and their heads on your shoulder. Its a good reminder… remember…there can be joy. Each child is it’s own universe. I can enjoy them as separate from Will, from Tiger. Now. Holding your own is something else entirely almost. You can imagine the relief! Lucky enough to truly enjoy babies again! That part of grieving was the worst.

Oh yes. But pregnant woman that I don’t know- the ones that I just run into rounding the corner, walking the dog, on the subway. Those beautiful bellies, the tender hand rubbing them, the *glow* in their eyes. The shiny hair and long nails. Oh, those beautiful bellies and trimester and the yoga and the preparation and the partner beside them- watchful and amazed- their hand gently taken to the curve, mother’s hand on top, to feel the alien kicks and then the mutual smile at the moment of impact. It’s all so magical… so unbelievable that we do this as humans. To do this- the man that feels so envious of this ability in woman? Me x 1000 with a shadowing dose of memory.

Maybe because this was my life with my boys. This was their life with me. It will always be magic.

Oh we should have children at 22.