Finally, Later.

CW: Contains themes of and/or references to infant death and grief

I stood in the doorway of the nursery, overwhelmed by the task before me. Yellow light poured through the secondhand curtains, casting a warm glow on the mess scattered throughout the room. Admittedly, the disarray was my fault. Being in a rush, being too lazy. Life with a baby. There were blankets hanging over the side of the crib, a few neglected bottles on the highchair, a dirty pair of pajamas on the changing table, and a couple toys on the floor. 

My daughter’s clothes, each article so tiny on its own, piled into a heap on the dresser. I’ve always been terrible at those types of multiple-step tasks. I had no problem getting the dirty clothes into the basket, then sorting it for the wash, transferring it into the dryer, and pulling it out as to not hold up the next load that needed to be dried. But then? All production stopped, and we dressed from wrinkled piles rather than dresser drawers. The menacing pile of pastels, flowers, stripes and polka dots, towered over me, the procrastination I could no longer procrastinate. My eternal, "I'll do it later", mentality had finally been exhausted of opportunity.

Stubbornly, I found the will to avoid this task yet again, shoveling the clothes into a plastic garbage bag, labeling it "Lilly's clothes CLEAN" with a black marker. I justified this by telling myself I'd get organized later when I needed to use them next. No sense in doing it now. I proceeded to do the same with the rest of the contents of the dresser, stopping briefly to appreciate a little pink sock without its twin. I tossed the lone sock into a bag and thought, maybe it'll turn up later.

Bag after bag was filled, tightly cinched at the top, labeled, and tossed into a pile by the door. "Lilly's winter clothes", "Lilly's bibs/wash cloths/burp cloths", "Lilly's blankets/towels", jotted sloppily across each dimpled, white bag. Seeing the room reduced to just a few bags was a relief, it seemed like an impossible chore before I’d started.

I plopped into the wooden rocking chair in the corner and reflected on the hours I'd spent sitting there holding Lilly. Admittedly, I hadn't done enough packing to justify this break but nonetheless, here I sat. I rested my head on the ruffled cushion of the chair’s head rest and looked around the room without moving. My eyes scanned all the little things I collected one at a time throughout my pregnancy while I was "nesting", as they say. The theme was supposed to be boho initially, colorful with wicker furniture like a whimsically staged room I'd seen in a magazine years ago. By the time the baby arrived it was more of a floral, garden theme.

Somewhere around the end of my second trimester, I ventured down an unfamiliar street in my neighborhood, following neon 'ESTATE SALE!! 9205 DARLA RD' signs. Immediately upon pulling into the stone driveway of 9205 Darla rd., my eyes locked on a nursery set in the grass. The guy hosting the sale, a too-eager blonde with unnaturally pearlescent white teeth, told me the old man who had lived there, built each piece for his wife and all their children used the set. The host continued, but I did my best to drown him out as I took in all the details of the set for myself.

There was a crib, a rocking chair, a small chest of drawers, a highchair, and a changing table. Each addition was crafted from a deep, grainy wood. The chair had a burnt orange cushion fastened to the seat and the back of the chair with ruffled ribbons. The bed and changing table were each decorated in ruffles and padded with the same fabric, clearly handmade specifically for the set. The work of the wife, I assumed. The wood was smooth, even after all these years, it's clear they took great care of it. All the pieces were adorned in carved flowers and vines, each lightly stained in red, yellow, and green. Every nail, screw, and bolt, a glimmering brass.

A little embarrassed, I offered the man $200, knowing the set was worth much more. Truthfully, I couldn't afford even the $200 I had offered. Happily accepting my bid and clearly having zero sentimental attachment to anything in the home, I followed the man inside for my receipt. Every surface in the cluttered house was covered in a display of dishes, trinkets, and collectibles, making it easy for buyers to browse.

Camouflaged amongst the outdated masses in a lace blouse, perched an old woman in a recliner by the window. Slowly, and with effort, the tiny woman turned to me and smiled, "How far along are you, lady?", her shrill voice rang out. I placed my hand on my belly and told her (I don't remember what the answer was). Her wrinkled skin pulled up to form an unconvincing smile, her eyes did nothing to conceal their sadness, "I want you to have it, but you have to use it for all your babies, even the boys. They won’t mind the flowers." She laughed at herself, appearing to remember something. Perhaps the sight of her own sons in the feminine set.

At the time, I already knew Lilly was going to be a girl and I had no plans of having another child, at least not any time soon. But I politely nodded, promising to hold onto the set and pass it on after my babies were done using it. This next smile seemed genuine. She was satisfied with this and began to tell me about how her husband, Bert, made it for her 60 years ago when he came home from the Army.

Her daughter interjected, "Mom, you can't just give everything away. We need the money to go towards dad’s services and the medical bills. Remember?" The daughter gave me an apologetic look before leaving the room to tend to another lady who was observing a China cabinet. I silently judged the daughter for her ability to give away such a priceless family heirloom. Then I changed my mind, deciding that I didn’t know enough about the situation to deem her insensitive. The woman turned back towards the window, her eyes grazing upon a lifetime of belongings scattered in her yard on tables and tarps, just as they were in the interior of her home. She nodded softly as her eyes welled up with tears, not saying another word for the remainder of the time I was there.

 I attempted to catch her eye to thank her and say goodbye on my way out, but she remained entranced with the scene of the front yard. My heart ached for her as we loaded the furniture carefully into the back of my truck, I couldn't see her, but I knew she was watching.

Maybe this is how she felt in some way. I sighed, looking at Lilly's once picturesque nursery, half packed into bags. I had moved in shortly after discovering I was pregnant with her. The first few months, all I had was a couch, then a couch and a table, then a couch, a table, and a vintage nursery set. I couldn’t afford much more than that, but I had what we needed. Another thing I couldn’t afford was my usual pacifier of "later" to rest on. I had a little less than 9 months to get my life together before the baby came. It was one of the only times in my life I was motivated enough to succeed. As if I had a choice. Regardless, I was proud of her little room. Proud of myself too.

Slapping my hands on the arms of the rocking chair, I stood, preparing to get back to work. As my weight came off the seat, the rocking chair settled backwards, bumping loudly into the sage colored wall behind it. I froze, hearing a tiny cry from the next room over. My ears scanned the air instinctively, squinting to hear a follow up cry, there wasn’t one.

Deciding at once that I would have to deal with the furniture later, I collected the bags to take them down to the truck, carrying several in each hand to make the most of the trip. With my foot, I pushed the door open and stepped into the freshness of the living room. The contrast was jarring. The light creeping through the only window was pale, making the white walls appear grey and ghostly, shadows exposed the uneven patch jobs from renters and maintenance people before me. The tile was cold beneath my feet; I always meant to get a rug in here at some point.

The sterile atmosphere of the apartment made me want to retreat into Lilly's room, its sunny glow luring me in like a moth to a porch light. I took a deep breath in, closing my eyes and opening them once more on the exhale. Couch, table, nursery set. I took an inventory of all the furniture I owned then continued with the few other miscellaneous things to further ground myself. Lamp on the dresser, bedding on the couch, books on the table, dishes in the kitchen, and... I stopped my brain in its tracks, remaining frozen between the thresh hold of Lilly’s inviting room and the rest of the icy apartment. My eyes frantically shifted, searching for something else, anything else I had missed on my mental checklist. Calendar on the wall, keys by the door, and... Think. Think!

There was nothing else but Lilly in the crib.

Dropping the bags at my feet, I turned to face the nursery once more. Subconsciously, I floated towards the crib in the farthest corner. Peering over the edge of the beautifully crafted wood and into the orange ruffles, laid Lilly.

Her urn, not much larger than a jar of peanut butter, remained where I’d set it over a year ago. The pink capsule rested cozily, tucked in with a stuffed bear and the last lullaby I’d managed to utter in my grief. The guilt of my inability to visit her until now, made me sick. My throat tightened at the memory, and I averted my eyes, placing my palms lightly on the glossy rail that once held so many other babies safely inside the crib. Once I steadied my weak legs, I forced myself to face my baby girl again. Gripping both of my hands on the rail now, my knuckles flexed, as if hanging over a cliff, holding onto Burt's’ creation for dear life.

The doctors, therapists, and everyone I knew told me not to rush this part. “There’s no timeline on grief”, they’d console, “take things in your own time, and if you’re not ready, try again later.” I always resented that part, as if I’d ever be ready. And yet, here I stood. Was today this mysterious “later” they always talked about?

Gasping at the stale air in this room that had been sealed like a tomb for so long, I was suddenly aware of its smell. Not bad, just, not fresh. The sweet aroma of flowers had long subsided, a once flourishing garden, naked in the winter months. I released my grip on the side of the crib, leaving behind a sweaty smudge on the otherwise polished surface of the wood. Robotically, like the claw machine at the mall, my brain sent signals to my hands, directing them to reach for Lilly. A little to the left, down, then a pause. A little to the right, down, then a longer pause. open the claw, close the claw. Bring the claw back up.

Winner.