A flower and not a flower;
Of mist and yet not of mist;
At midnight he was there;
He went as daylight shone.
He came, and for a little while
Was like a dream of spring.
And then,
As morning clouds that vanish traceless,
He was gone.
– Po Chü

There is a box in our back room that I do not open. It has his initials on the front and his book inside, wrapped in a bag we once carried everywhere when the pain was fresh. A proxy for his little life. Today I opened the box for the first time in almost sixteen years.

I believe in the premise that when we grieve we re-grieve all of our former losses, and lately there is no question I have been mourning my gradual, painful separation from my teenage daughter. Oh, she is still here, living with me, healthy and strong, but her heart has departed for the destination of her great emancipation.

What makes opening this box particularly noteworthy is that I have loved and lost several times since our son died before he was big enough to live. I have lost my mother, gotten divorced (a death of its own kind), and lost several dear friends and family members. In short, I have grieved since his death without significantly revisiting it. But during all of these painful chapters, I have had one constant: my child. She stood by my side and breathed joy into my wings so I could fly again. We used to sing, “shoo fly, don’t bother me, cause I belong to somebody.” Previously when I reflected on the loss of our boy, I believed for a long time that she was his surrogate, and signs even suggested so.

That may be, but there is no denying that I delivered two children into this world. Science tells us that mothers carry within them the cells of the children they have birthed. I carry his cells as I carry hers.

The early years of raising our daughter were not easy, but they were rich, deep, and meaningful. I wrote essay after essay about what I was discovering. She taught me to feel, to love, to trust. She gave me a sense of purpose that I previously lacked. Her company helped me break through personal barriers, go into therapy to heal ancient wounds, and uncover my true self absent anyone’s judgment. I got to the point where I stopped mentioning our first child at all. I grieved him once, but I don’t think I ever re-grieved him. My thoughts grew softer and evolved into reflecting about a road not taken.

Until recently.

It has shocked me how he has entered my dreams, my thoughts, my prayers. I have been reminded that his passing was not a choice but a brutal shaking of our snow globe that changed the course of our lives forever. I question if many things would have happened, including our divorce and our move across the country, (including, dare I say it, the level of pain I am experiencing in this current teenage separation process), if he had lived and I could have had more children easily. I will never know what would have happened if I had gotten to the doctor faster, if she had tried to play God, if he had lived. Or if my body had worked properly in the first place.

Just after his departure when I carried his milk and my tears to overflowing, I used to talk about the death of promise. That in some ways there is no greater loss than the death of promise, of hope, of possibility that comes with a child. All of that potential ahead, yet to unfold. When I open his binder, I recall this thought.

It is an interesting time to be launching my blog, reaching out to agents about the memoir, and sharing what were once only private thoughts. I always have been a reserved person, and I’ve shared my heart sparingly. My connection with my daughter is the last thread holding me to what I know, to existing love; I recognize that letting go and allowing myself to be vulnerable is part of my bridge to the future.

This blog is born of the memoir. And the memoir is born of the concept that life and rebirth happen, that after we miscarry, our parenting moments can be even more magical simply because we know the fragility of life. One doesn’t need loss to know this, but it certainly played a role in my awakening.

I open our son’s scrapbook. It is written to him, beginning with his father’s and my romance. Photos of how we met, wedding photos, our first apartment and jobs. Our first house which I describe as “the house where you were born.” Our thirtieth birthdays, ultrasounds, the holidays, our “Infanticipation” announcement. What could go wrong?

And then that was that.

His death is followed by notes of consolation, his hand and footprints in clay. I wrote, “May the greatest God of All shelter you always and keep an eye on us mere mortals as we stumble along this path, trying to make sense of it all. A path that you, wise, sacred child of mine, obviously did not need to take.”

Another day, I titled my page, “The Maybes – Trying to Understand,” providing a list that included: Maybe you left us way too prematurely so that you could be the child we will never have to let go… we can hold you in our hearts and love you unconditionally with no human fallibility… our own angel. Maybe when we read this scrapbook 15-20 years from now we will know why.

While grieving I believed that another child would make my pain disappear. And she did, until her own disappearing act began.

It’s not the same. It’s not the same at all. The pain of losing him was so pure and unadulterated. Our daughter’s gradual ripping away is a different kind of wrenching. Yet she lives. And there is promise for the years ahead. Why does it have to hurt? Why do I worry so much? (I have met Anxiety since my blithe confidence that her brother would live.) This is not a clean grief from which I can recover. It’s messy and confusing. One moment the sun shines, the next I’m back in one of the levels of hell. It’s almost like she forgets, occasionally, to shut me out and a ray of light sneaks in. I wish she would forget more often, or better yet, grow in assurance that I will not impede her growth. I will not blockade her door. I want nothing more than her successful flight.

I’ve put the box away now. It may be another 15 years before I bring it out again. I know its contents too well still; in some ways it was unnecessary to open it at all. Except for the point of acknowledging, for a few hours, what we went through, without the wisdom of hindsight. But there is one thing I know without doubt: if you had spoken with me back then, in the depths of despair, and asked, “I can promise you another child. But you will get hurt along the way as she grows up. Are you game?”

I would have answered, absolutely, I am.

No pain is greater than a mother with empty arms.

Game on.