The Ninth Autumnal Equinox

Reaching out, breath held, rivulets of cold water race down the glass, my fingertips graze the window, but then I am pulled backwards and I lose you in the dark, murky waters. My child, always just out of reach in that brackish pond.

Was your dying young a hidden gift? You will never know the emptiness of aging, the haunting of a life wasting away in the monotony of days. You will never know the fear of disease that steals away your independence or poverty that locks you in stagnant waters of existence.

Studying the chrysalis of the Monarch butterfly, I watch as the jade green walls enclosing the caterpillar thin to transparency revealing tight, folded wings of black and gold. The tiny confines of its chrysalis belies the elegant spread of its wings. Holding my breath, I witness as it emerges, wings wet, it hangs upside down allowing brilliant wings to dry.

Sensing no urgency in this winged creature, I try to absorb the lesson it teaches. Nothing is gained by flying too soon, but how do you know when your wings are dry?

Autumnal Equinox, a time of harvest, a collecting of what has grown, a turning inward to the darkness to rest. Observing the Swallowtail chrysalis, they are content to remain in suspension until spring, unlike the Monarch that will emerge late in the season. Their chrysalis reminds me of a corpse wrapped in green linen. Does the Swallowtail sense the coming of frost and give themselves over to the darkness until the spring equinox beckons them to awake from their slumber?

Justin, your death came days after the the arrival of the autumnal equinox, your birth, days before the Spring equinox, your life echoing the rhythm of nature. I am convinced that you were never of this world, but some sort of wood sprite dropped in our laps for a brief season.

Retreating inside my being, I struggle to discern where I am in the metamorphosis life cycle. Do I exist in a size too small chrysalis, it is time to emerge and embrace a new life?

After nine years of child loss, I seek to integrate the child gone to soon into my life and I fail. So I live like you did not, because to acknowledge you is too painful. I seek the last few moments of your existence here in this dimension. I strain my ears for the sound of your laughter on this flat plane of your absence and hear only my own heart beating.

Life is not a circle, it is a spiral. Each cycle does not bring you back to where you started, change is inevitable. Each surrendering to the chrysalis brings the emergence of a different self. Each season of darkness and waiting is longer and more intense in its solitude.

The garden has almost too much life and color, I am ready for the sweet cocoon of winter. My wings are not dry, the metamorphosis not complete, the work of the chrysalis is not finished. I will return to the solitude of a garden spent and resting. A place of quiet where I can reconcile growing old without you. A chrysalis where I can ask myself the question of what I spent my life on and what is the rationale for pursuing life.

Holding my breath for as long as I can, my fingers graze the glass, waiting for your fingers to mirror mine on the other side of the glass and somehow I will pull you free of your watery tomb. Waking from my dream, heart pounding, I exhale.