Jacob brought home a perfectly entertaining and functional keyboard a few weeks ago. She learned rather quickly how to get all sorts of sounds from it. I've enjoyed hearing her play her avant-garde compositions. I found myself at the keyboard doing old exercises and recalling chords, parts of songs. My fingers began to find songs again, the way they did when I was a kid.
I entitled the tune I was working on Notes for Iris. I was playing for a person who did not exist except inside of me. There was so much more to her in my mind than there ever would be...anywhere. I was several weeks pregnant but already picking notes to match the little life I was feeling. By the end of the month it was over. Iris Josephine would never be but I can pick out the keys I placed in a specific order that can tell you how much I thought of her.
It's such an odd experience to not complete a pregnancy, especially during the spring. Then I noticed the tomato plant has a stunted fruit that is no longer being fed and has stopped developing. There are a few mountain laurels that never came into full bloom. Their flowers are not even purple giving the trees a sad, greyish look. I remember the fertile eggs my hens sat on one year and how they never hatched but spoiled instead. Still, there is not much comfort in knowing that things can stop growing in the spring and do.
The notes from the windchime when the breeze plays them for me, creates a soothing music. Looking up at the sky when the winds are escorting a late morning storm into the city and finding a beautiful hawk floating, almost still, for a few moments. Looking down at the ground at just the right time and catching sight of the largest and most voluptuous lady bug I have seen and by its side, the teenie-tiniest lady bug I have ever seen. These are all part of a randomness I do find comfort in. Having made the most out of the unexpected surprises that last only moments then vanish. Very short songs and stories that were there just for me. Iris Josephine was like that.