This is the time of reckoning, when your 44-year-old husband tells you he doesn't want to try again. This is the time when your step-son says maybe you can't have babies because your stomach is too strong, too small, too hard. This is the time when a fellow teacher says that you dress as if you are 40, "like an old lady" she says, and you look at her frowning, really frowning, and just think, not yet, not yet.
Your baby hasn't come. Every movie you watch is about babies, born, dying, and every time your husband looks over at your stoney face, your wet face, your laughing face, your incredulous face and checks to make sure there isn't the threat of the strong undertow of sadness he thinks might take you down.
It's that time.
It's also the time that you fall into yourself, your sexy woman-human body, your own skin and your step-moming skin and just celebrate the love you have. The beast of loss haunts your back step, sniffs the night stars, lurks in the shadows of the garden of your mind, but you choose not to feed it. You refuse the why? Refuse to look for a pattern that explains the things you have had to let go of. Why? Because God isn't in those patterns, don't call it God, call it Joy--Joy isn't in those patterns. The equation that explains your loss doesn't exist. The only thing that exists is your choice to move on and to take it all in: the beauty, the sorrow, the cycles of the seasons, calling it all your home.
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