Member-only story
Someone’s Child Dies Every Day
Eight years ago today, it was mine
On any given day I often think, someone’s child died on this day one or five or twenty years ago. And today is my day. Eight years ago on March 22nd, it was my child who died.
All those years ago, I knew Ana was fading, that the time for saying goodbye was rapidly arriving. But each morning, I hoped for one more good day.
And one more.
And one more.
It was a shock when she died even though I knew it was coming. I was incredulous, outraged, absolutely inconsolable. There’s still some residual disbelief, even after all this time. I’m still recoiling. I’m still questioning why this happened to Ana. Why was she the girl who died?
These feelings don’t consume me like they used to. They exist in some dark center of my psyche. Some day, perhaps, a brilliant therapist might have the skill to help me excavate and release them. And then what? I will be fully healed? I will be able to put Ana’s life, and my role as her mother, fully behind me? No thanks.
I light a candle for Ana. I watch the flame dance inside its glass prison as smoke curls around the wick, turning the glass black. I should’ve trimmed the wick before I lit it. I should’ve bought a new candle.
