Timothy Levis

shared by Chelsea Levis, feb. 2022

For me, February seems to forget it’s manners –– Vermont days that are so cold that even our snowblower freezes, fitful windy nights that our daughter won’t sleep through, a sun that hides behind layers of gray clouds. February not-so-kindly reminds me that grief has no stopping point. The intensity of missing our son amplifies in February when we remember his birthday but are keenly aware of his absence.

Timothy was born on February 17, 2014, and died the same day. He was a squishy baby boy, ready for life, but due to an acute event during labor (likely a placenta abruption) and not enough blood reserve to endure an emergency c-section, he wasn’t going to spend that life with us.

This year, 8 years out from our son’s death, the image of his little feet have been ingrained in my mind as we navigate the tumultuous emotions that grief brings us in February. Timothy has been with me countless places, and yet, I look for him everywhere. His feet didn’t get to walk, but I imagine when he would have taken his first step. His feet didn’t wander back to the hospital when his younger siblings were born, but I wonder how he would have greeted them. His toes didn’t get to curl up when I tickle him, but I think about the sound of his laugh. I watch for him everywhere.

Tish Harrison Warren writes,

“In the relentless vulnerability of our lives, we not only weep – we watch.”

February brings a lot of weeping. And when it ends, I can say good riddance to such a quiet month. I start hoping for spring, planning my garden, hiking our “timmy trail” more, and it becomes a little easier to watch for him. Grief is fickle and February is rude. I miss him. I watch for him. And I’ll continue to wonder where his feet would have traveled as we enter new seasons of life.