He handed me a box, a small black fuzzy box, almost light as air. Along with the box came a card. It's not an unexpected gift, more like a tradition. I know the contents already. Having already recieved 6 of these familiar gifts, one annually at this time of the year.
I recieved that first fuzzy box on Mother's Day 2001, barely pregnant with Aiden. It was supposed to be the start of a romantic tradition, a pearl to represent the beginning of a life. One to be added to the collection for each year of his life, to be given traditionally every Mother's Day.
Fate didn't provide for that opportunity to be a joyous one, and each year as I open the box and the accompanying card, it all just seems so bittersweet. So I slide the pearl onto the chain, a physical reminder that it's been six long years since my attempt and ultimate failure at parenthood. I open and read the card, and temporarliy put aside my jadded opinions of the giver of this gift, relishng in the compasion being afforded me this day. I despertely want to believe time can heal all wounds.
