Every Year

Remembering my daughter, Caitlin Anne, today on her death date--the first day of the meaning of forever.

Every year in July, I write my daughter's name in the sand at the beach. I pick up a stick or shell, and trace the letters of her first and middle name in quick cursive. Stepping back with my bare feet firmly on shore, I study it--the lines, curves, and dot above the i in her name. In this ritual of devotion and observance of her life, I once again enter the realm of magical thinking--my hope that the ocean won't wash her away. And every year, the wave does what it does--and once again shares with me what forever means.

It Spins My Head

DH gave me  a pair of beautiful butterfly earrings in gold and semiprecious stones. He told me, he didn't know why he bought them for me, only that they seemed to reflect my spirit. They were a symbol of a new joyful period in my life. A period characterized by lightness, almost the feeling of weightlessness. I was grateful, I'd emerged from some crappy experiences, took some risks and found myself loved and appreciated by this wonderful man. Butterflies symbolized freedom to light upon love. Amazing.

Fast forward six years to the birth and death of our daughter, Caitlin. Eleven weeks after her death (the same amount of time she lived), I attended a group meeting for parents whose children had died. We sat in a circle, and passed around a stone. I listened with horror as each parent gripped the stone, releasing another death story. "This is my life," was my silent scream. I opened my hands and the stone landed heavy in my hands. It was etched with my symbol of lightness--butterflies. Once a symbol of freedom, butterflies now symbolized the irons of grief. 

I was helpless. I'd like to say I was courageous when I embraced grief, but, truthfully grief captured me, and, I surrendered. Eventually I did aim to "feel how this feels," to open my arms to the experience rather than steal myself from it. Grief became a friend; the one willing to remind me of Caitlin every day. Grief never forgot her name or that I was her mother.

Over the last four years, I also embraced the butterfly's new symbolism. Now, a symbol of my daughter entering new spaces in my life in ways never intended. A symbol of her short life parenting me, rather than the way it's supposed to be--my life spent parenting her.

In this sixth year, I've experienced some sense of comfort and engaged in life in some new ways, and reconnected with friends and family. Sadly during my efforts to reconnect, I discovered I'd lost long term memories of experiences or events with other people. "Remember when we . . . " continues to be frequently met with "No" or "I'm sure that did happen; I don't know." I wonder if the butterfly forgets its life on the ground or the wind the nearly blew its cocoon from a tenuous tether. 

But stasis isn't the nature of a butterfly, and a chance story brought the symbol through another transformation.

While in the library, in a period of productivity with work, I detoured and read some posts on a social networking site. There, a friend reminded me of a pair of butterfly earrings I gave to her daughter for being my flower girl on the happiest day of my life. I still don't remember that I gave that gift. I don't remember buying them and I don't remember giving them. But, it makes sense I would choose a symbol of what the day meant to me to give as a gift. Tears burst at the reminder of the lightness and joy I felt in those days. I gasped, then let them fall as I sat in stoic silence remembering her death. Then, Guilt landed on my heart like that awful stone. How could I be "comfortable"? Working? Experiencing a new kind of lightness? How? When my daughter is dead.

Eventually, I drug my hands back to the keyboard to work. And then, it happened--one of those odd coincidence's that communicates my daughter's presence to me, and sometimes communicates her parenting of me. I was working on an article about children's books, and I clicked on a link to a blog, and found these: 

Felt like a message. Perhaps, a reassuring message of, "It's OK to revisit yourself. To emerge independent. To experience some comfort. To allow the butterflies their flight."

I'm not sure I'm ready for this. I'm not sure I want this. Am I letting go of the grief? If grief doesn't visit, who will help me remember? Will I lose the only motherhood role left to me, that of a bereaved mother?  When people say, "do you have children" will I answer no? This isn't OK with me. But, Caitlin seems to be telling me, it's OK to reclaim some of who I was as "Oddrey" and it's OK to lovingly say "Bye, Bye, Butterflies!"

Odd, this symbol of transformation, transforming. It's spins my head.

Ah, the way we find meaning in this world, confusing.

A Mountain, A Hut, and a Lion

I have always been a lucid dreamer. From the time I was a child, I had nightmares and storymares and such. I remember that the nightmares sometimes sent me flying to my parents' room for comfort. And I remember that one of those nights, after my father sent me back to bed, I went back to sleep, and the nightmare continued. And I knew within the dream that I'd have to take care of myself. A feat of gargantuan effort for a four or five year old, I managed to perceive during the nightmare that I was dreaming. I didn't like the way the story ended. Then, I "re-wound" the gruesome story and changed the outcome. Over the years, I developed many ways to navigate the dark and terrifying creations of my mind. I became an active player in my stories. I learned to "run," a special fly-like-deer-running that I created especially for dreams that helped me successfully escape from what ever was chasing me. And I learned to step out of the action like taking a seat at a theatre. And from my seat I watched my mind-movie.

And sometimes these mind movies come in sequels, the latest of which was "A Mountain, A Hut, and a Lion," the sequel to "A Tree, a Door, and a Lion." The first Lion-flick I saw was during the first year after Caitlin died. It was a surprising dream because it contrasted the emotionally draining and soul-trembling creations I was experiencing at that time. In the opening scene, I exited a doorway and was startled to see a lion. This enormous lion with a full main, a healthy shining orange coat and rippling powerful muscles made eye-contact with me. Instead of charging, as I feared, it made pierced my heart with its gaze and blinked like a yaw--only with eyelids. And with a slow nod it remained under the tree. And I remained an active player in my dream, and stood there in the grass with a transfixed on the lion. I perceived that it was content, that it welcomed me to its green space, and experienced its intended shared tranquility. Eventually, I walked on, the scene faded, and I was plummeted into another dream that took more rigorous work. I woke up exhausted, but with the memory of the lion's shared tranquility. Odd.

Two nights ago, the sequel. I am hiking a mountain. The trail is steep and it's getting dark. Others tried to keep up with me, but could not, and I would not slow down. Far above the treeline, I reached the hut and threw myself inside. It was small like a closet with hard dark wood walls. Grandparents of grandparents made this place from old trees; I knew this because the wood planks were wide. The wind howled and progressed to wild gales. But I learned quickly that sounds I heard wasn't only wind. I heard the lion. He was ragged and angry. His rage toward me had fueled his pursuit of me up the steep and rocky trail. Our eyes locked briefly through a thick dingy window at the top of the heavy door. From my seat, I saw my eyes fly open in fearful recognition. I was terrified. He dropped from the window and broke through the wall behind me slamming his massive body against the wall I was hugging. I rolled slightly to avoid being pinned.

This event threw me out of my passive role as an audience member of my personal mind-movie, and into my self-preservation role. I became an active player in a dream state of fight or flight. Fly-running wasn't an option inside a hut on top of a mountain with a dangerous tawny lion inside. I was too alarmed to rewind, after all there was no where else to go. No haven, no fortress, only an ancient hut atop a mountain. I squeezed myself out of the door, as the lion lunged, slamming it closed. I fled up--or was it down?-- the same rocky trail that led us there.

What does it mean? I don't know. I only hope that this is a trilogy. Because, our heroine is lost and directionless, and there's a lion on the loose.

The Moon

I sat in an orange chair in our sitting room when the full moon caught my spirit and compelled me to looked up at her through the skylight. She was breathtaking, bright, a reflection of the sunshine --- like my daughter as she lives within me now. Her life now reflected in my own. I call for her dad to come and see. We shut the lights out so that the only light that comes through is what shines from the moon. We squeeze into that orange chair together and watch her in silence. Dark clouds cover her and we see, not hear, the tumultuous wind fight to keep her covered. But she remains and when a break in the clouds appear, the light is bright and piecing and beautiful. We exhale together. "Miss you."

Like Slog

It's like slog inside my mind, when I'm thinking along and all is going smoothly. The words flow as I articulate what I mean, and then my thinking runs into a thick swamp of dead reeds, murky water, mud, and a toxic oil spill. And I must step forward and slog through, dragging myself through the thoughts, searching wildly for images within my mind, and reaching desperately for sounds to make words to string together. All the while, I push down the panic that I won't survive it. I won't survive this grief moment. Hoping the tears will wait as I slog my way through to the other side, with the sludge still clinging to my body as I open my mouth and eventually successfully speak. The damage is apparent, and it's embarrassing and frustrating. The experience resolves itself first with emotions of relief, then sorrow and anger, and finally the unsettling fear of the next swamp to come.

Another grief moment at work, that rendered my lecture a lesson in what it looks like when the mind succumbs to grief and the brain doesn't function as it should. I have amazingly supportive students, but I hadn't planned on explaining to them what I struggle with periodically. I planned on teaching them, but my stammering made me appear like someone who had no business teaching them, and so I told them--"I've experienced a traumatic event in my life that left me with symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. A trauma causes very real chemical changes in the brain, and sometimes it affects how I speak." Then I said something like "Oh crap, I didn't mean to tell my students that."

A new fear is creeping in--will this grief destroy my career? Will a bereaved mother be relegated to only grief as her work? I worry. I worry.

I Think This is What We Do

Stand on our own tails to prevent ourselves from falling into the pit. ((((((Hugs))))) fellow bereaved parents.

Waylaid, Delayed, and Detoured

Yikes, the day I had yesterday . . . . here it is without a breath . . .

I'm immersed in some new possibilities for my career and I get waylaid on some paperwork and am late to a meeting, an hour late, but I go anyway because when I get in the car I hear "Let it Be," and I think, "yeah, just let it be. You already know how hard life can be. This whole late to a meeting that's nothing," so I keep driving and arrive at the meeting, whereby some dolt says, "You have children don't you?"

"Oh, yes we do. We had a daughter two years ago and she died." And I hear this big intake of breath, but seriously I'm so irritated because "where the hell were you?" This was big news in this group for some time and you were there, but whatever, there are some people who won't remember--they have their own hidden tragedies--and I don't really have the time and energy to get that upset, I mean really, just let it be, ya know. Who cares that he didn't pay attention it's not all about me, and that's hardly the most insensitive thing I've heard, so get on with the conversation and the work you have to do. You don't have to be waylaid by this.

I move on to connect with another colleague and whamie another delay in my "let it be" mantra with the whole,

Well, I couldn't commit, because I'll probably be out in May. . . . blah blah blah . . . I won't be able to do anything until after May . . . .blah blah blah . . . . .out in May . . . blah . . . May . . .

Yeah, I got that, but I'm in no emotional state to hear happy news about a pregnancy and another new baby, 'cause I'm still avoiding the waylay from the last conversation. So I ask other questions to get us off the whole calendar topic, and I hear in my head, "seriously she wants to tell you about her baby, and it's good news so let her tell it, you can smile, just let it be." I pause and say, "But, you mentioned that you'll be out, what's going on?"

Well, I'm, and no one here really knows this, but I'm adopting and I'm waiting for a call to travel to pick up my baby and then I'll have court dates, and I'm . . .

I couldn't believe how happy that made me. "WOW, that's awesome. Congratulations." Ah that felt good, weird and cool. "Well, you already sound like a great mom, Oh, I'm sorry I don't even know. Do you have other children?" OK, seriously me, you need to let it be, you know better than to ask that question, what if she's had some tragedy . . . .

Oh, no, I'm going to be a single mom.

And she get's tears in her eyes, and I feel so privileged that she told me this terrific news and I told her so and I got tears in my eyes. "Well, this is selfish I know, but I've had a crappy day so far, and well, this is the best news I've heard all day. Thank you."

So, I'm thinking the waylays and the delays are over, but when I get out of the meeting I encounter construction and a detour and land on the wrong highway, and look up at a big green billboard for a women's clinic that reads, "Having trouble getting pregnant? Next left." No, "let it be" on that one, first the angry sardonic words came, "been there, done that, baby died." Then I screamed and cried and missed the detour back on to the road I needed to get home. I managed to calm myself down and took the very next exit and turned onto a another road with a sign that reads "Hospital Road," and the swear fest resumes until I turn the corner right past the hospital where Caitlin was born and I am at last quiet.

Letting the tears flow and letting it be, 'cause all my day's efforts have led me here.

I miss her. I'm not always sad. I'm not always in grief, but today my journey had some waylays, delays, and detours. Eventually I did make it home to fold myself into the arms of my DH, tell the whole story without a breath and cry myself to sleep.

Like a Shell

Waves of grief are thus described
Because when they wash over you
They pull you under deep dark waters
Waters where you find yourself as frightened as the first time
Her death pulled you under
Waters where you know helplessness
Again, as it was before
Waters where you wonder

"How will I survive?"

Waters that bash you against the shore and roll you around in cold blackness
Until you surrender to grief's tide
Leaving you at last on the sand and seaweed
You feel like a shell
Perhaps others will see the beauty of your shell, but you feel like your insides are gone

You are gone

To Those Who See Thestrals in Real Life

I'm veering onto a path of popular culture to share one of the ways I try to explain to others this phenomenon of recognizing death. The lens I use since Caitlin's death, and what I see when I look at the world through my eyes--the eyes of a bereaved parent. It's a little like Harry and Luna in "The Order of the Phoenix," one of the Harry Potter movies.

There's a scene where Harry is on his way to Hogwarts with his friends and he turns around and looks behind him.


HIs friends remain fixated at what lies ahead, but Harry turns around and sees what was and what is. Thestrals. Ugly creatures and yet gentle, because they know what they are. Visible reminders that death is real.



He asks, "Don't you see them? What's pulling the carriage." And his friend answers, "Nothing's pulling the carriage, Harry. It's pulling itself just like it always does." Ah, the luxury of ignorance.



He meets Luna, who assures him that he sees what he sees. She's quite calm about it as she can see them too. We find out later in the film that Harry and Luna see the Thestrals because they have witnessed death. And that's a bit what it's like seeing through bereaved eyes--We recognize each other. We know the look of seeing death. Other's will look past it, but we will see it in the eyes of our fellow bereaved. We will hear it in the careful words they choose to use in answering "How many children do you have?"

Other's who without this death experience believe that life gets pulled by itself "just like it always does," and those who have seen death know that sometimes what pulls us through life is the knowing that it (death) does and can happen. We need the Thestrals to pull the carriage, because left to ourselves we would melt in despair on the forest floor.



To those who see Thestrals, I echo what Luna says, "It's OK, you're not crazy. I see them too."

Grief Woven

We spent a couple days with friends this weekend. I had a bit of anxiety when we left home, as I always do, but it took less time for it to subside. It's always easier if my DH is going with me, but even when we leave, I would feel this sense that I was leaving Caitlin. It's not irrational, it's grief. But continually I see that my grief is woven into the fabric of my life. It's happening. I'm stronger.

Our friend recently lost his father and I knew not to shy away from asking about the memorial service, how he passed, and "how are you doing?" I knew not to worry our invitation to talk would bring up something painful that he didn't want to talk about, but rather, it would bring up something painful that he did want to talk about. We could see in his face that he was relieved to talk about his father and this pain of his death in his life.

We shared how important it is that we collect and hold and view and honor the objects that connect us to our loved ones. When talking about a painting that had a significance to the death, he sighed, "I just don't know where to put it yet." My response was quick, "It's OK to leave it there as long as you need it to be there. And some day, you'll think, 'hey, I know exactly where it should go.'" I know this because when we returned from France, I unpacked our suitcase, and moved Caitlin's memory box and stuffed animals that lay in her crib to her white free standing closet in what would have been her room. This was the right time to move them out of our living space. This action was another sign that grief will continually be woven into my life and sharing these thoughts with our friends was a way to be part of the grief work they must do.

Absence, Again

We took a trip. Ten days in southern France in a little village with no computer and no work, just wine, walks, reading, and food. I took a couple of books of poetry, Emily Dickinson and Robert Frost. I also brought my pink journal, the one with butterflies that I use for writing about Caitlin. And as each day passed, I became aware that I couldn't seem to conjure a sense of connection with Caitlin there. I wasn't surprised. It made perfect sense, though I was hoping to bring her with me as it were. I've had, thus far in my grief journey, a sense that I was a conduit and that what I saw and experienced Caitlin would see and hear as well, and that through me we could do things together. France was different and I felt her absence, again, unable to find a portal. Again, I found what is not, cannot, and will not be.

In my journal I wrote, "I've been trying to find Caitlin here in France. she is in my heart, but I have not yet been successful in bringing her here to where I am." That day, I managed to squeeze in a walk in the village by myself. I was determined to bring some of this crippling absence to a resolution. Grief and I walked and I searched for a place to write her name. When your child is gone, her name is what remains. I sat on a bench overlooking the village and looked around, there was no sand or dirt to write, so I picked up some stones from the cobblestone circle and wrote her name. I stepped back to study what I had written and discovered that her name blended into the stone, not the clear sculpted name that I trace each time I visit the cemetery where she is buried. I sat by her name and could think of nothing. Absence, again. This was a new life place for us and another experience that I must accept on this journey.

I didn't have time to continue my journey and find a more suitable place to write her name. Instead, I took some pictures and hurried back to meet with my husband and our kind hosts with a smile and "sure, I'm ready to go." I didn't have time to make meaning. Now that I'm home and able to reflect on the pictures, I find it fitting that her name blended in with the stone bench and that one had to truly look and study to find her. I have become stronger in carrying my grief, more productive in my work, and more able to answer questions of "Do you have an children?" with "Yes, a daughter who lives in heaven." Acute grief has subsided and is not easily visible on my face and in my voice to most of the people I encounter. You wouldn't know I was a bereaved mother unless you took the time to study closely my face and the words I choose carefully in our conversations.

"I miss you baby girl. I wish we could have stayed home with you, reading you stories about France instead of traveling there without you."

Grief becomes a Sunflower

I'm not sure how to respond anymore. Just when I think I understand Grief, she shows me another side to her. It's not my intention to wallow, but, rather to pay attention. I am grateful for all of you for your messages and cards of love and support for our family as we navigate this life without Caitlin here with us on this earth.

It's not my intention to wallow, but I'm not really sure of what that means anymore. With a year now officially gone and marked from Caitlin's last breath and heart beat, I struggle to see how any of this pain mingled with joy that she made us parents, be anything but worthy of "wallow." Every tear we cry, and word I write seems hardly savory or indulgent, but rather quite necessary. We would hardly expect someone to not pay attention to the most important events of their lives, birthdays and weddings, and so, Caitlin’s death seems quite equal in importance.

I worry, though. I worry that my expression of grief makes others sad. But I must trust that these expressions are the outward signs of love. I must trust that this truth will resonate with others who love. It is not my intention to make others uncomfortable with talk of death of our child, but rather to be truthful and through honest expression of sorrow and joy, to heal myself and others who choose to accompany me on this journey at times.

Recently, someone remarked as to my use of a sunflower as my profile picture on a wepage. I remember the sunflower picture, and the reason I chose it (yes, Beth, I think it was sign of sorts, if we are so privileged in life to receive or send these.). I was walking in AZ on the ASU campus in June and thinking, "there is no way I can continue to teach and think that what I do is important when my child is dead." And, in the AZ sun, it's hard to remain in despair, and the walk led me past the tallest sunflower I'd seen. It was so out of place, on campus in the concrete next to a stair well, and, yet not out of place at all. After all it's a big research university so likely the plant is part of some study that garners $$ support and will win faculty retention and likely secure tenure, but I digress (a good sign of healing, I'm sure. Insert wry smile here.).

So, I see the sunflower, but not as a sign of bright happiness, but as a testament of misery looking for what will warm her, what will heal her, and what will make despair less and life better. For the sunflower, the answer seemed to be the sun (insert second wry smile here, quite simply for the "duh" factor), but for me it's my daughter, Caitlin Anne.

I felt quite rooted to the ground and miserable, and my only release and hope was to turn myself toward the sun, toward my daughter, toward what I cannot touch or hold. And in desperation, I try to soak up as much of her loving rays as possible.

"Comfort" by Ann Hood

In just weeks after Caitlin died, I heard of a non-denominational group that helps bereaved parents cope, and so I attended a meeting on "How to Cope with the Holidays" with a special speaker, Ann Hood. Truth be known. I didn't care about the topic. After all, I wasn't even aware that there were holidays. The day after Caitlin's funeral we had Thanksgiving dinner at my house. It was surreal. The years of holiday dinners kicked in and we celebrated being together as a family, and for me her death loomed over it all. But we were thankful to be together, that I remember. I smiled that day.

Oh, dear, I've lost focus. . . .

So, I go alone to the group session. I entered already tear-stained and shaking and hunched over--a posture I held for months and still sometimes return to when the grief folds me again. I'm greeted by two lovely women, leaders of the group and bereaved mothers. They welcome me and ask about Caitlin. I answer, but I don't remember the rest of the conversation. I'm introduced to others and Kleenex boxes are placed in the several places in the center of a circle of about 30 chairs. I'm introduced and seated next to a pregnant woman, whose first child died as an infant from SIDS. This mom had flowing red hair and her love for her child radiated from her. We talk and I feel this hope that I'm sitting next to a baby. Yup, I felt comforted by the presence of a baby I couldn't see or hold, and wasn't mine. But, somehow it was proof on some level that babies could live. That was an anchor for me, the growing baby.

Oh, dear, I've lost focus again . . .

There were more than the usual number of chairs, because of our special speaker, Ann Hood, who wrote "The Knitting Circle" and the not yet published "Comfort." We were there to hear her story and hear some hope and feel some comfort.

The meeting starts We passed a rock with butterflies painted on it and as each parent held the rock, they told raw and painful stories of their dead children and their grief became as hard and cold as that rock. As the butterflies fluttered to each shaking bereft hand the cold hard pain continued to pummel me. When I received the rock, I remember saying something that identified who I was and that I was Caitlin's mother and she had died just a few weeks earlier and then I stared at the stone butterflies and remembered how the symbol that was once hopeful throughout my life was now stone. The beautiful gold butterfly earrings my husband gave to me with a smile and sweet words, "They made me think of you and your spirit." The butterfly icon I used when I first posted a care message on Caitlin's page for family and friends far away with the message, "A beautiful butterfly for a beautiful girl." And the baby onsies with butterflies on them.

"And I'm scared," I said, "I'm so scared." The stone butterflies layed their heaviness into the hands of the parent to my right and though there were 10 more stories, I was deaf. I hear a dull roar and could only remember the weight of that stone in my hands and the weight of Caitlin's dead body in my arms, when I looked at my husband and whispered, "She's not here anymore. I can feel it. She's not here anymore."


Oh, dear, I must focus . . .

The speaker, it was her turn. The stone was in her hands and I thought, "OK, now here is where I will hear some comfort. I'll see some evidence that I can survive this." The dead cold stone drew out her story of the death of her child. We heard the sad details and the devastation it visited upon her and her family. And my pain becomes unbearable and the meeting is over. I hug one woman and leave with the stories pounding inside my ears and crushing my heart. And a rock gives way and I find myself swept away in an avalanche of death rock and stone.




I leave with ax desperately swinging and trying to anchor it somewhere to save myself. I hear me talking to myself, trying to self-sooth with a mantra of "This is unacceptable. Unacceptable. This is unacceptable." I found myself in my car, holding my keys and trying to remember what to do with them. And grateful only for the landing.








What of "Comfort" by Ann Hood? I may discover that another day.

I'm Crumbling

That's what I think, that today I am crumbling. My facade of getting things done is becoming dust. My can-do make-it-happen attitude is tattered. My smile, fading to fake again. I know that emotions are transient, and that this feeling of crumbling should pass. Yet, this feeling of being overwhelmed and being under pressure, so much so that parts of me are dropping off, is pervasive. And each day more falls away.

What concerns me most is that my caring is crumbling. (Yeah, I know that makes no sense.) I held this idea that the big stuff matters most and the little stuff matters just as much. So, meeting deadlines and saying "hello" and answering questions and emails and phone calls and such is little stuff that matters. But, I can't seem to care about it. I can't seem to muster the energy, no I don't even try to muster. It's like I'm watching from my shell that houses some core of me and protects it from all else, and I'm removed from it all and the rest of me is crumbling. It doesn't feel like a wave of grief. It feels like giving up and crumbling.

Grandma's Quilt

The MISS Foundation published "Grandma's Quilt: A Healing Metaphor" in the Sept/Oct newsletter. I read somewhere that you have to tell your own story for hundreds of times before your own heart and mind understand and believe. So, thanks MISS for providing a place for our story and helping us to heal. I printed a copy of it and placed it lovingly in Caitlin's memory book. "I miss you baby girl. I love you."

[Click HERE to read the full story on p. 4 of the newsletter.]

Hanging the Moon

I went to visit Caitlin's grave tonight. I was relieved to see that her things were all there. The caretakers mow carefully and replace her things as best as can be expected. I was so grateful to squeeze her toy and listen to the sounds with her. I don't understand. I still don't understand how this happened. I know it happened. I mean, my mind knows how it happened, but my heart, my mother's heart, doesn't understand.

I wept. I left a kiss on her stone. The wetness of my tears and lips stayed as long as they could, but then, the evidence of my love evaporated into the air. The ground has grown up around her grave. It's settled in and grass has covered the scars from where they replaced the sod. I put my hands on that ground, wishing I could draw her from it. My mother's heart, the part that doesn't understand, sent a hope that I would feel her heart beat beneath the ground. That heart that saved mine.

I stayed for some time and watched the sky, but I saw no stars and no moon. The night sky--open, no clouds, barely a breeze, and as bleak as my soul. I placed a star at her stone to let her know that I was there. I stared at that star and came to understand it as a metaphor for my daughter. Unreachable and beautiful. I looked up and at last found a single star in the sky. And as is typical for a bereaved mother, I knew to keep staring, to watch carefully, to study the sky for more, and then I saw a shooting star in the early evening sky. It's light was still bright enough to shine through a not-yet-black night. I smiled. It's hard to refute a sign, even when I don't yet know if I believe in them.

The darkness finally surrounded us, me kneeling on sacred ground and my daughter shining from above hanging a sliver of a moon.

Lovely Memory

I don't know why, but today after a rare restful sleep, I remembered Caitlin's cheeks. I felt them against my own and with a gentle intake took in the scent of sweet babyness. A lovely memory, one I can't put in a memory box, but must practice--passing it through my mind like the beads through my fingers in a fervent rosary prayer.