It was an unseasonably warm day, much like today, but in 1999, when weather like this was so rare as to be a miracle.
I waited to pick up a pregnancy test until after my hair appointment that, not wanting to give up my annual birthday ritual of highlights, but knowing that I would, if there had been a someone, to consider, inside.
A year had passed without two lines on a stick.
My first miscarriage was six-years earlier.In May of 1993.
The second–in November–of the same year, on the day of Uncle Joe’s funeral.
A son had come two years later, and now a second soul was knocking on the door, but I hadn’t found the key.
I stopped at Rite Aid with my fresh highlights and purchased this month’s pregnancy test.
I stopped at the Post Office too.
A yellow notification card.
A high school friend. A cd. Stevie Nicks.
Once home, I peed on a stick. I pushed play.
I called my husband. And my sisters.
No one was there.
I pushed play again, and hit the repeat button, and turned up the volume and opened the French doors and stepped outside, into the yard, onto grass, instead of snow, and danced and twirled and laughed with the mountains and the woods and the sky. In rapture.
It would be months before this song became an anthem.
He was born just in time.
A week early.
She held him in her arms before she died.
His life and this song became our balm.