There was almost-snow today, rain that was just barely solid. It doesn’t snow very much in my city, so when it does, even a little bit, we all take notice.
It snowed two months ago today. I didn’t see the snow falling, though, because I was in a darkened hospital room, labouring to deliver my dead daughter. We heard reports of the snow and we saw it from the window of the room we slept in later that night, where I woke shivering uncontrollably, not from the cold, but in reaction to the epidural that didn’t work until after A was born and to the horrible shock of what had happened to our happy life. It snowed again the next day, and when we returned from the hospital we went to the park and built tiny little snowmen with E.
E was born in the snow, too. She was born just before Christmas and snow had been accumulating for days before her birthday. I will never forget the last afternoon she was in my belly. It was a clear day, rare here in December, and the sun shone on the snow and through a hazy mist that rose off the iced-over lagoon. Although I had been hoping my baby would not be born too close to Christmas, and this was only 3 days before, I found myself thinking it was a perfect, magical day to be born. We went to the hospital later that night and she was born at 6:22 the next morning. We spent a white Christmas at the hospital and it was still snowing when we finally brought her home a few days later.
I find myself wanting to believe in signs. To believe that it is not coincidence that it snowed when E was born, that it snowed when A was born, and that it snowed today, exactly two months after A’s silent passage out from the warmth of my body. I have told E that her Baby Sister is in the trees, the grass, the flowers, the sky and the rain. Surely, then, she must be in the snow, too? In the nearly-there, already-disappearing snow that fell on our city today? I wish. I wish.