Today, for the 11th time, I woke up on my daughter’s birthday without her. Each year has been different but none have been easy.
While she may not physically be here, when we look closely, we see her.
She’s in her big brother’s face when he sleeps. She looked so much like him.
She’s in her baby brother’s wonder. He often asks about her and imagines life with a big sister.
She’s in my daydreams. They’re my favorite ones.
She’s in the faded stretch mark on my hip, the only one she gave me.
She’s in the songs I play and the poems I read.
She’s in the stillness. The silence was deafening.
She’s throughout our home in photo frames, on necklaces and keychains; memory boxes tucked in closets, only to be pulled out when I’m feeling strong enough.
She’s in the Facebook posts from friends with little girls that are her should-be age that hit my heart and soul and sometimes bring me to my knees.
She’s in the birthday parties we attend for our friends’ daughters who turn ages she never will. She’s in the heart-broken glances my husband and I exchange in those moments.
She’s in the butterfly that floats by us and in the Lillies of the Valleys that we come across. Sometimes, I feel her in a warm breeze.
She’s in the friends who remember her with us each year and speak her name. Those are my favorite people.
She’s in the beautiful women who came into my life after her death and held me up until I could walk on my own again.
She’s in my eyes that have never reflected back at me quite the same since the day I handed her over for the last time. They’ve seen things no parent should.
She’s in our laughs that have changed since she died. We laugh more now. Heartier. We remember what it feels like to be too weak to do so.
She’s in our empathy and compassion that comes from knowing the deepest sorrow.
She’s in our fears and our ability to still hope and dream.
She’s in our sense of adventure to live and our drive to seek out the joy. We know all too well how fragile life can be; how quickly it can all change.
She’s in the open space in every family photo we take, almost as if there’s always a place reserved for her; where she should be.
You may not see her there. But we do.
If you look closely enough, you’ll see her, too.
