Robin

Owen, my youngest, turns 20 this weekend. He was born on the most perfect day in the history of Virginia days. The day spring got its name, the moment cherry blossoms blossomed, the morning all the world was waking to robins and redbuds and rhododendron. I woke at 3:00 am, and labored on the screen porch while the sun came up, surrounded by the softest, sweetest scents in the history of April. In the history of gardens. In the history of breaking dawns.

Until then, I never liked spring much. My dad died on the first day of spring, and that, too, was a perfect day. Wakened with the news in the early morning hours, the neighborhood felt inappropriately bouncy to me. Like the whole world was wearing brand new Keds while I was immobilized in a block of ice. Like everyone was falling in love in their little sleeveless tops and I was still wrapped in layers of wool.

The creation and the carve; after all this time, still I am full, still I am empty, still spring comes, and with it all the ways I’ve loved and lost. And time folds upon itself, and I see my Dad in Owen’s wry sense of humor. They never met but somehow here they are, both together, while the robin wakes the day.