The ultrasound confirmed twins.

After five years of fertility treatments and unspeakable loss, their dream of being parents was near. Fears of telling family and friends began to dissipate, and on New Year’s Eve they broke the news to a room full of happy tears.

“Their due date is Easter Sunday,” she said to broad grins and clinking bubble flutes… The celebration wading deep into the night.

New Year’s morning was clear and crisp. Dark mineral earth filled colorful pots just outside the kitchen window. Four bare hands tilled the dirt, opening holes for the culinary herb starts purchased early that week. Lovingly placed in their new home, the flavor plants seemed to perk immediately. Especially the towering rosemary spears.

The rosemary was picked with purpose, with mild winter zones promising a robust crop just in time for Easter. Seven hour lamb the plan, with heirloom white beans on the side.

On that Saturday past Good Friday before the family gathered, he went to the pots to pick his bounty. The thyme had spilled over its container edges, the celadon sage leaves were dense, and the rosemary had taken hold, shooting upward toward the early Spring sun.

Two of those woodland spears were especially tall, robust and bold with fragrant spikes. Twisting together above the rest, clones glistening in the morning dew.

Clipping them low and adding them to the harvest, he turned to see his wife in the doorway glowing beautiful and tired with one urgent emotion on her face…

Easter that year? A bit different than planned.

Held in the maternity ward, as family and friends visited two angels instead.