A year later and

I am making Red Beans and Rice after a nice long day with my son where we planted a half-dozen varieties of seeds (hot peppers and tomatoes and corn and basil and three different flowers and cucumbers and I know it's early but I don't care) and talked about making things grow (all of our plans for the garden this summer - they are grand plans and I don't care because we WILL sprout sunflowers next to the house in that patch on the hill that never grows even grass) and I barely thought about *it* until he said, and remember, he is three, but when he said I hope one day you can make a baby grow and survive (in what world should "survive" hold residence in a three year old's vocabulary?) a grief washed over me and I remembered the poems about black holes I've left unfinished in these past few weeks, afraid to put into words what I have felt this year, but it was repelled, in a way, water off a duck's back or a waxed apple or something with a smile that refused to fade on this gray day because dammit these seeds will sprout and this house will grow things and things will survive and we will move forward, but not on.