The cherry blossoms popped out this past week, throwing their abundance in my face. I wasn’t ready for this. The large tree behind our house in Brooklyn declares that Lucian’s birthday is approaching. I watch the tree each year, holding a small hope close to my heart: that it blooms its lush, pink petals just around April 27th, that they will hang over us like they did on his second birthday when one little friend came over. We ate cake with strawberries and cream, and my curly haired boy sat on my lap to blow out his candles. Or like they bloomed for his third birthday, when we invited other children to bring their tricycles and scooters, and they raced around on the driveway under the pink canopy.
I’ve been peeking at the buds all around our neighborhood, able to enjoy their occasional bursts of color and frivolity with a peaceful sense of appreciation. At the same rate as the buds themselves (tiny, timidly at first) come out, I’m drawn back into the circle of growth, dormancy, regrowth. Life, death, life.
The eiderdown of snow that had blanketed the yard and decorated the trees, the houses, and even the clothesline (much more festively than we had, with our one twinkly, light-wrapped wreath on the front door) and had lasted through New Year’s Eve, is all gone now. I was surprised by the nakedness of everything when I arrived here yesterday from the city. But the winter sun is cheery, and the air is crisp and cool.
I have missed my lunch due to the train travel, and so at 3 o’clock I stand at the kitchen counter and eat decadent slabs of the Stilton, left over from my New Year’s Eve splurging, which was waiting loyally for me in the fridge. I alternate nibbles of celery, crunchy and saline, with the Stilton, which coats my mouth with savory, mulchy richness- and round out each bite with a slice of sweet Pink Lady apple from the orchard down the road.
I am alone in this foreign quiet, this shell of a house. Just at 4:15, as dusk descends, I open the door to illuminate the wreath- and with a reflex I bend my leg to keep the puppy from running out the door. But just as quickly I remember that the dog is not here.
Now the golden haze of leaves is shading darker and deeper, and the clocks have been set back an hour. We’ve passed through the ring of fire- November 2nd, a day I wish I could erase. It’s time for me to turn my attention to what lies ahead. I made myself a large calendar, with boxes dated through December; we’ve been caught unprepared for winter holidays, as usual. I feel a sense of panic. But then I remember- it doesn’t matter to me any more whether or not we make the perfect plan. I guess I’ve gained perspective. The pressure’s off; I don’t feel like celebrating. Lucian’s spirit hangs over me while I rush through the familiar battles of city living and try to find my balance- on the streets, and in my days. I still don’t understand that he’s gone. He became so much a part of my being while he was alive, that I will never lose him. Somehow that’s a comfort.
Another comfort has been the responses to my article in the October issue of Vogue magazine, A Glimmer of Life. I have received so many words of support, love, encouragement and genuine empathy, that I’m bowled over. I am still absorbing the idea that it’s a public piece; this story that is so very personal. It felt good to write it, though, and in some way the process of doing it has helped me. And now, you are helping me too. I have not yet been able to reply to all of the friends, family and- amazingly- strangers who have reached out to me to say: I care. But if you’re reading this now, please know that I am so grateful for your words.
It’s dark before five and the lights are shining on our little tree. Yesterday I had an urge to bake gifts to give to friends: tiny brown sugar-apple cakes, compact and rich. These I wrapped in waxed paper and tied with a bright bakers’ string. Cheery, satisfying and good; they looked adorable all wrapped and ready to go. Before heading out to visit a friend, I baked off a double batch of cakes and prepped a large amount of granola, also for gifts. I don’t really have time for all this- I’m supposed to be packing and organizing my home, tying up loose ends; paying bills and suspending magazine subscriptions. We’re moving to Rome for the semester and there’s so much to do.
So what does all this baking bring me at a time like this? I can’t help but wonder where my priorities are. I know that busy hands help me put off doing the things on my list- I’d call it productive procrastination. Busy hands help me manage my feelings; and busy hands are also a way of remembering.
These apple cakes are filled with memories. About ten years ago I created the recipe for a magazine story, which featured a gifted ceramicist and her stylish husband. Our team from Martha Stewart Living brought a van and two cars filled with food and props from the city to the country, where we laid them out and spun a story out of pictures. In their kitchen I cooked mushroom and pumpkin soup, and spread artisanal cheese on wholesome bread. Then I checked with the photographer before darting out to the bathroom, where I unpacked my plastic breast pump and anxiously listened to the voices of my co-workers on the other side of the door while the pump did its work, extracting the nourishing milk from each breast. I would bring it home in little bottles for my first baby, Lucian. No matter that I had been away from him for two days. This mundane activity gave me a sense of purpose and allayed my guilt; if I could produce milk for my son while I made this beautiful meal for the ceramicist and her husband, I was still a virtuous mother.
The baby is gone, and now so is the child- taken much too soon. The hole that remains is so large. Can I fill it with my boundless love for the one who’s left behind – little Theo? Not completely. So here, in this new landscape of mourning, I take what I know and turn it into these warm cakes; lightly fragrant with cinnamon and nutmeg and filled with warm apple slices. This is one way I can feel sure-footed while the ground underneath me shifts and I see the tilt of the planet as if from above. I can hold these in my hands before I give them away- they are nourishing and good.