Chop Wood, Carry Water

Calyx-

When we moved into our house it was flagged with a massive presence looming in the front yard and spreading through the cracks in our blinds. A crabapple tree, barren but promising, greeted us each time we pulled into the driveway.  We missed its bloom but I’d seen it in pictures and it drew me to the house in the first place. A brilliant wash of pink consumed the yard and comforted me that there was life to be celebrated in this home. Inside the house was lovely, except an extra room that seemed to taunt me with unfulfilled promises, but outside the house was the crabapple tree, and that’s when I started believing in magic again.

I’ve waited for you to arrive in the same way I’ve waited to see those tiny coral buds peek out from behind a layer of green.

At times I practiced patience. I made myself breathe when I wanted to fume. I muttered mottos about due time and things that come to those who wait. I sculpted my body into the shape of a tree while surrounded by a room of uncomfortable pregnant women doing the same thing. I’ve waited in the only way I know how, by just surviving until I get there– or until you get here. 

Other times I’ve worried. On a walk the other day I pointed to another crabapple tree and asked your dad why theirs was blooming when ours isn’t. In this fashion I’ve also waited, with bated breath, ready to be stripped of something before it even arrives.

Your dad has waited for you in his own way, building garden beds out of old wood and trusting that someday vegetables will spring from what was once just a corner of our untidy yard. He offers gestures of kindness to overshadow his impatience and he doesn’t waiver when I point out the wood he is using is infested with termites. He is not any better or worse than I am at waiting, he just approaches it in another way, with another type of life. 

Your sisters have waited for you first silently–scared to tell anyone they knew of your presence– and now quite vocally, demanding that if you don’t arrive soon they must have a bunny to cuddle with. One of them folds and counts your clothes meticulously, the other one just worries about accidentally dropping you someday. They both have a lot to learn about waiting but they’ve almost made it through their first serving of worthiness.

Yesterday the crabapple tree bloomed. I cried with relief and thought how it will be viewable every spring from that extra room I couldn’t stand for so many months. Your room. Viewable by you.

I’ll continue to try to practice patience. I’ll continue to believe that magic lives inside and outside our house. I’ll continue to marvel at the ways we all wait for you until the day you finally arrive.

I’ll continue to cry when I glimpse those pink blossoms knowing soon you’ll witness it for yourself.  In our home, where we’ll celebrate your life every day.

I’ve waited for you like the crabapple tree and I’ll keep waiting until you both are here.