October

He was born in October. The landscape was a blaze of auburn and gold. A chill sharpened the evening air, the animals’ breath rising in clouds of mist. The fields were all but emptied of their crops, barren and exposed to the skies.

It was Joe who ran to the barn in search of his father. In my dreams, I still see his adolescent face streaked with tears and blanched by fear. His feet barely touched the earth as he covered the distance from the house.

There was no time for fetching the doctor. No time, and no use.

He was ushered into the world silently, the only sound my muffled sobs. John was by my side–his face like stone, though I knew his heart was breaking. The children huddled in the next room. From time to time, the stove door creaked as Joe added another log and the silence was shattered.

I reached for him, afraid and aching at once. One breath, two breaths. I wrapped him in the quilt. His quilt. By lamplight, I had stitched each piece, dreaming of the child who would nestle under its warmth, marking the days until his February arrival. It was unfinished–but then, so was he.

John touched my shoulder gently and handed me a box. The faded letters read, “J.C. Penney.” I looked absently to the corner of the room where it had once held John’s Sunday shoes. His best shoes. The patent leather glinted in the lamplight as they lay strewn on the floorboards.

I nodded and placed him gently in the box. So small, he barely filled the space.

Tears streaking his weathered cheeks, John lifted him carefully from my hands. He carried him into the next room. It was warm there. Through the door I could see as he laid the box by the stove. The children gathered around, clinging to one another.

Time stood still. We were together, all of us. For just a moment, we were all together.

The sun slipped away unnoticed; the stars began their vigil. And still we held our breath, willing his to continue.

As the clock struck nine, I met John’s gaze. I knew, without a word. Our fractured family would never again be complete.

“He needs a name,” Joe spoke softly into the darkness.

“Yes, a name!” the other children agreed.

“Dominic,” John whispered, “His name should be Dominic. Belonging to God. This child, he was ours only briefly. He is God’s own.”

I reached out my hands, and John gently lifted the tiny soul wrapped in his unfinished quilt. I cradled him close, sobbing softly. I kissed his tiny head, whispering again and again, “Dominic, oh sweet Dominic.”

We laid him to rest under the maple tree. It was ablaze in gold, like Heaven’s streets. He was cradled in its roots, buried in the box meant for his father’s Sunday best. A tiny cross marks the place with just one name, “Dominic.”

He was born in October, the glorious fall made sacred by his arrival. He was born in October.