Wintering

On Motherhood: The enraptured grief that clarified me as a mother

We painted Easter eggs made of wood. Strokes of watercolor in tones as flamboyant as your mood.

Your hands were stained blue. Not blue like longing or sadness or death. But blue like hope and calm and the sea at last light.

I thought about your Great Grandpa Pete. He died Easter weekend, or maybe it was the weekend before Easter or the one after. I don’t …