I stood in the middle of the Arizona desert three months after you had died.
The sun was beginning to set, and the sky was painted with soft oranges and pinks.
The air was cool against my wet cheeks.
My heart had set like the sun and as dry as the sand I stood upon.
My tears were the only moisture as big drops splashed on the barren land.
Now my womb was dry and hot with anger like the mid-day desert sun.
I stood at the top of Pike’s Peak in Colorado six months after you were gone.
I breathed in the frozen air, and I reached down to touch the icy snow.
My heart was as cold as the surrounding snowy peaks.
My womb was as cold as the frigid air that surrounded me.
My warm tears melted tiny circles in the snow as I knelt and wept silently.
I stood at the edge of the ocean nine months after you were gone.
The water was cool against my ankles, and I dug my feet into the white sand to anchor my unsteady body.
The waves were choppy and unsettled, and the water was fluctuating and unpredictable.
My heart was as uncertain as each wave that crashed upon the shore.
My womb-wavering each month with whether or not to shed its’ skin.
I waded out into the sea and screamed into the wind, “Please! Bring them back to me!”
The salty tears on my cheeks, mixed with the salty sea spray, covered each word out of my mouth.
I stood in the middle of a green field filled with wildflowers twelve months after you were gone.
The wind blew gently through the tall blades.
Each flower seemed to sway to its’ own unique dance of grief, and I let the fragrant grass slide softly through my fingers.
My heart was, ever so slowly and gingerly, beating. It skipped two beats, one for each of you, when precious memories drifted into my mind.
My womb sat vulnerable like the blooms exposed to the driving rain and hot, summer sun.
A sudden rush filled my throat with the low hum of my tears. Soft tears sprinkled the flowers.
I stood at the edge of a lush forest full of pine trees reaching upward towards heaven fourteen months after you were gone.
The fresh smell of pine needles wrapped its’ comforting scent around me.
I stood, scared to enter this sanctuary; fearful of what emotions may come to me in the stillness.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and took a deep breath, as sunbeams peaked through the thickest branches.
I stopped in front of a tiny sapling, struggling to catch up with its’ taller brothers and sisters.
I felt a surge of love for this tiny tree because my heart was also trying to play “catch up”-trying to reach for the light-trying to come alive.
I touched my stomach. My womb ached to grow new life which was as beautiful as the new shoots springing forth from the underbelly of the forest.
Warm tears sprung to my eyes, blurring the outline of each tree.
The landscapes of my life would continue to change, as would my grief in the stillborn journey of my precious twins, Adam and Sophia.
Many years later I sat in the soft, cozy comfort of my favorite chair.
I closed my eyes and listened to the gentle rain falling outside.
The windows were dotted with raindrops, sliding down each pane.
My heart had been filled with every season and landscape. Parts of me withered and died; remained buried under the dark soil, struggling to peak through, and finally bloomed and once again bore fruit.
My heart will forever carry pieces of each landscape, of each passageway.
It will carry nuggets of wisdom, comfort, anguish, and heartache.
I let the tears flow freely like the rainy landscape I watched.
The rain slowed to a gentle drip.
I wiped my cheeks, and my damp hands went protectively to my belly.
A smile spread from my heart and across my mouth, as I cherished a new and gentle kick.