Everything was golden in the weeks after my son died.
Glimmering threads of light spooled through my kitchen window and illuminated the most mundane objects, making them look sacred. Sunlight danced on the concrete in my garden and dappled the laundry drying on the line. On a walk, I remember all the grass as wispy strands of ochre and burned yellow.
I was having an extended golden hour, pumped full of maternal love with no baby to hold. Hormones, I suspect – which I was surprised to find that you get, even if your baby dies during delivery.
