The Infertile Version
I love spring.
Amid the layers of expansion and explosion and blatant fertility, a sinister undertone of mockery simmers.
Nature’s growth muscle is flexing in our yard. The timely application of organic lawn products, long awaited eye candy of seasonal bulbs and our summer garden feast decisively poking up from the earth imply an impending experience both satisfying and ecstatic.
With all that gets to live making itself the diva of the moment, the knowledge of that which doesn’t echoes in every crevice of my being. Hisses of why swirl as I’m bombarded by baby strollers, damned by daffodils and taunted by tulips.
Colder than normal temperatures have added an element of slow motion to nature’s unfolding, providing us a delicious extension of its wonder. I have always loved spring.
All that torpedoes through the ground and unfurls from branches stridently flies in the face of loss, emitting a visual cackle of sorts as it facilitates a fraudulent masquerade for nature’s frequent failings.
Meanwhile, the torrent of excruciating parent holidays will ensue. This time, let’s butter them with the birth of yet another royal baby, shall we? While we’re at it anyway.
Imaginings of what I will do with parts of our yard stimulate excitement. Feelings of joy erupt from what is yet to come.
But, vibrations of precious cargo that doesn’t get to make it here lodge in my chest like a boulder. After taking stock of our yard, I find a seemingly content seat in the warm sun. Oh how I love spring. My lower lip again quivers.