Thursday, September 10, 2015

It’s gone.

The locket I wore around my neck every day for a year.
The locket that holds a very tiny, very blurry, very dark picture of a very tiny girl.
The locket whose clasp was broken by a two-year-old who constantly asked to look at the picture of the sister she would never know.
The locket I glued shut so I could continue to have its comfort close to me.
The locket that brought her heart close to mine.
The locket I only pull out of its place once a year.

It’s gone.

I tore that space apart looking for it. It's not there. It's not anywhere. It's not in a drawer or in my nightstand or in the bathroom or hidden between two scarves. I know Eve plays in my jewelry and scarves frequently, and I’m sure she played with it one day, not knowing what it means to me. I’m sure it’s shoved in a dark corner somewhere or casually thrown into the trash. The trash. I can’t think about that.

It’s gone. And I can’t wear it close to my heart today.

The heart-shaped locket that seals two hearts together.
Two hearts.

One here.
One there.

I should be planning carpools to junior high. 
Whose room would she share—Lily’s or Eve’s?
I should be setting a table for seven each night, not six.
Would she love Harry Potter and Percy Jackson like Micah?
I should be making a birthday cake.
What would her favorite dinner request be for tonight?
I should be planning a party—one of those big junior high things with pizza and swimming and giggling. So much giggling at thirteen.
Who would she invite?
I should be refereeing shared bathroom time.
Whose pants are these—yours or Lily’s?
I should be driving to dance or tumbling or soccer or volleyball.

What if . . .
I should be . . . 

But I’m not.

Instead, I weather September 10th mostly alone, and this year I will do it without her and without my locket. Alone with my what-ifs and my should-have-beens. I know I will see her again, one day. One beautiful, perfect day.

Will she know me?
Will I recognize her?

This daughter of my heart.


  1. She knows. I believe and know that they know we love them forever, always. Be kind to yourself today. Love ya,

  2. I'm so sorry it isn't next to your heart. I can't imagine.

    Hugs is all I have. Hope you are able to hang on through the day. The post is beautiful.

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  4. This September 10 I thought of you, because I read your post of how you lost this daughter a while ago, and I was in the hospital trying to prevent the early arrival of my baby. The next day, last Friday, I lost our baby boy. He was born at 20 weeks, and lived for a few seconds.I came back to your blog to read your post right now because, for some reason, it's somewhat comforting to read that this has happened to other people who have such deep righteous desires to have children. I feel like I'll never get over this, and I don't know when I'll be happy again, but your beautiful family and blog posts help me see that I won't ever get over it, and I don't have to in order to be happy again. Thank you for being open about your life's hardest, saddest moments.

    1. I am so sorry to hear about your loss. Nothing will ever fill that hole left in your heart. Ever. However, it will become less painful and more sweet as the years pass. If you need to talk, you can email me at the address above. Hugs and prayers for you and Carson today.

  5. I'm so sorry for your loss. All my love and prayers for you and for Ella. X