The other tree

Henry has two trees, the peach tree I wrote about recently, which we bought for him, and a hawthorne tree that came as a surprise gift in late May 2008. We planted it on his first birthday, and as neighbors walked by on that lovely May day, Brian told them that the tree was for Henry and that it was his birthday.

While we were digging the hole to plant the tree, we found this:

I looked out this morning and noticed that the flowers in Henry's color were about ready to pop, and a few hours later on this gray day, they had. Here they are, a flash of red, a bit of bright in the gloom.

A Flash of Red

I'm sitting in my car working as Kathleen naps on this gray, rainy day. I look up from an email to gather a thought, and there in the pear tree, a cardinal. That bright red amidst the drab of November, my Henry.

In Bloom

Last year, for Henry's birthday, we planted a peach tree.

I had decided, when I thought Henry would actually see his first birthday, that that's what Brian and I would give him as a birthday present. He didn't need toys or clothes, and the tree would grow and hopefully bear fruit that we could all enjoy. We already had one peach tree, one that had been given to us as a wedding present, and I thought we'd start a little family orchard.

After Henry died, I decided I'd still plant his tree. It was something I could do for his birthday, something we'd have for him.

Maybe it will bear fruit.

Maybe the squirrels won't
plunder it.

Maybe Brian and I will taste sweetness from a tree planted in bitterness.

I noticed the other day that Henry's peach tree is in bloom. How beautiful and bright and hopeful on this gray, rainy day.

***
Later, the sky remains gloomy gray, but somewhere the sun keeps peeping out, so it is bright off and on. And as I sat on the porch with Kathleen, a cardinal flew onto my neighbor's porch, sat for us briefly and then flew away. My Henry smile for the day.

Signs and Symbols

Under the Tree—March, part II
I have two main symbols for Henry: hearts and cardinals. I chose a heart, not only because of the obvious love connection, but because he had a congenital heart defect. Henry has always been my heart boy. While Henry was in the hospital, my aunt sent in a red stuffed cardinal that made cardinal sounds if you squeezed it. Between the sound and the bright red, Henry was fascinated by the bird. After he died, I found the sudden flash of red in an otherwise bleak landscape reminded me of Henry's smile, which could come out of no where and brighten my darkest mood.

These symbols have come up again and again, and I see them often as signs from Henry. We have collected heart stones, one from the beach when my family was together last summer, one uncovered when we were digging a hole to plant Henry's tree on his birthday, one found on our vacation last summer when I pregnant with Kathleen. I've seen hearts in the shapes of clouds, patches of snow, and leaves as I'm thinking of Henry or when I'm particularly sad. I smile and say to myself, "Henry."

Cardinals too seem a sign from Henry. I've seen one flash across the window as I was falling deeper into despair. A cardinal sat outside my grandmother's window while she ate her lunch on Henry's anniversary. My babylost mama friend Linda reports the cardinals she sees outside her house that make her think of my Henry. I don't necessarily feel Henry's presence with these signs, but they lift me up. They feel like a gift from him, often when I need it most.

The time I most felt Henry's presence was probably over a year ago now. It was late at night and I missed him desperately. I clutched his yellow blanket and I started to sing out loud to him. I sang his special song, the one that names him and all the people who love him. I felt him settle on my chest, snuggling there, as he had in the early months of his life. I finished the song and felt so much more peaceful. He stayed with me while I fell asleep; when I awoke he was gone. I've never felt him with me like that again.