Illumination Day

A lifetime ago, my guy and I spent the evening of July 4th in a hotel room on the outskirts of Boston. We weren't there for any kind of fourth of July celebration -  we were about to embark on yet another chapter on the road to parenthood. We didn't know yet that we'd be parents 'for real' by the following summer, we only knew we had a few more hoops to jump through, a few more wishes to make, a few more hopes to pray.

The following day was a blur. There was some surgery. We drove to my parents house afterwards - a nightmarish trip that felt like we were traveling at the speed of light - a side effect of medication. I slept. To this day, I've no idea what my guy did.

And life went on. A baby, then another, a move here, a loss there.

The blackberry brambles are tenacious this summer. Seeded from bird droppings they have invaded my perennial beds. I dig them up on Saturday, and by Tuesday, they are back, their young limbs blue-green, a color that reminds me of velvet. In one corner, under the deck, in a place I cannot reach, there is a branch bearing fruit. Instead of frustration, I find myself admiring this thorny interloper - it has some inner resolve, some inestimable fortitude to keep on growing, and in so doing, bears the sweetest of fruits.

On July 5, 1994, I took a step toward parenthood. My thorny interloper was born the following summer. Sweet fruit? Oh, you betcha.