The child was born dead, and it was as if the ice of that winter settled into her heart.
Her husband watched her slipping away with hopeless eyes and a heart that feared she would never make the spring.
But she did, barely, walking through the new growth like a wraith.
The garden drew her, and as the flowers put up their shoots and the trees began to wear a haze of green she forced herself to face the hurtful truth.
The tender violets were lifting their faces to the sky on the first day she allowed herself to cry.