“We were engaged in a parallel dance–one spinning toward death, the other toward life–both facing an ending and a beginning–coming to a threshold of no return.”
One of our family traditions is displaying the cards we receive for special occasions. My husband’s birthday was our most recent so the window sill in our kitchen holds the few that arrived in the mail. (When he complains about this dwindling enthusiasm, I remind him that we’re the grownups now.)
This year, however, the window is crowded. Greeting cards fill the sill, while others hang from the wooden mullions that lend our Vermont farmhouse that window-paned look.
The fullness is a result of a case of synchronicity: the birth of our son–just a month before his father’s birthday.
Cards for the baby continue to trickle in–with moons and lambs and jumping cows–seeming out of place with the cards poking fun of Casey’s age. But, they’re kept together for tradition’s sake.
It’s the ones added most recently that make me question the whole…
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