The spring brings Owen’s birth and death to mind, but I associate fall and winter with him the most. When we went into the hospital, the weather was still cool and showing no signs of spring. When we left the hospital without Owen, it was beautiful, sunny, and warm. I told Zach on the way home that it felt like Owen had brought the spring to us.

I suppose that also means to took the winter with him. Chill reminds me of Owen’s life with us: bundling myself up and not being able to find a coat to cover my belly as fall turned to winter, traipsing all over for appointments with specialists on icy roads, hibernating with him during our January snowstorm.

We took a beach trip when I was 14 weeks pregnant to celebrate the last bit of warmth. Two weeks later, fall had fully hit with changing leaves and cooler temperatures, and we were being told that Owen (who we had just recently named and felt move) was going to die. Winter came, and we got good news. Owen might live. Winter is the only hopeful time I got to experience with Owen. It’s the only season we spent planning for his life rather than his death. I wrote his name in the snow during the snowstorm so that if he lived, I could show him that we had been loving him and planning for him since before he was born, that he was a part of our family even before birth.