Cord blood, a nameless gift of deep, dark purple made its way slowly into my son's soft, five year old arm, while on his bed a toy train traced an oval track, blowing smoke for show.
With unveiled irony, a massive oak dressed Caleb's window with perfect red leaves -- pretty and poised to fall.
Today, a melancholy song blows in quietly with the autumn breeze.
I remember holding hope then. Then great lament. Lament, but then, not without Great hope.
Wind and sky, even sidewalk trees with gilded leaves re-sound notes low and deep, like witnesses or companions to costly things I store and ponder. And I am not afraid to remember this day.
