The magnolia trees are fruiting, bright cherry-red pods bursting from their furry cones. The seeds are spilling all over the sidewalk like tiny rose petals, like poison berries, like shiny wooden beads. Every day I walk the baby down the hill to daycare, bundled in his warm clothes and hat against the bright crisp morning, and every evening I walk him back in the frosty dark, past our neighbors' familiar gardens spotlit by warm streetlamps.

I went to the therapist a few days ago, and snuffled and stumbled incoherently through explanations of what is going on with me. She wants me to go back on antidepressants, and so next week I have an appointment with a doctor who will refer me to another doctor for pills, and I have an appointment with our pediatrician to talk about whether or not I should wean the baby before starting the meds. I feel ... I feel awful. I cry at nothing, at everything, at things so small they can't be seen by the naked eye.

I am blessed in so many ways, and this misery in the midst of my wonderful life makes me feel like an ingrate. Every morning, the magnolias are fruiting, and the sky is cold and clear, and my baby kicks and babbles in his backpack as we walk together. How can I be unhappy in the face of such gifts?