image by gail pomare

I knew the day would eventually come when Jack would ask me about Amelia. I just didn’t think it would come so soon.

We have Amelia’s bracelet hanging in a frame above the couch, and Jack loves to look at it and see that it matches mine. I tell him it’s his sister Amelia’s, but I really thought that went in one ear and out the other. But the other day he looked at the bracelet, threw his arms up and said clearly to me, Where is she?

My heart instantly just broke. My cheeks felt flushed and my eyes got wet. You get to a point when you think you’ve healed, and then you realize all over again that the little girl you loved is gone, gone, gone and there’s a hole in your family tree. It gets really bad when your kids start to notice.

I just looked at Jack, tears threatening to spill down my cheeks. My lip quivered and I managed to choke out the words, She died, sweetheart. Your sister died.

He thought about that for a moment, and perhaps because of the tears running down my face, puckered his lips and gave me a kiss. He wrapped his arms around my shoulders and hugged me tightly. He doesn’t know what death means, or that when we visit the cemetery, it’s his sister’s body that’s buried beneath that stone. But he knows enough to recognize that his mama is sad she can’t be with baby Amelia anymore.

Several children have asked me where Jack’s sister is and about her death. I don’t mind their curiosity, and it’s fine and natural for them to ask. I just didn’t realize how much harder it would be when my own son asked me about her.

I know he’ll ask again. And again and again and again. My other children will ask, perhaps again and again and again. But someday, will it get easier? Will there finally come a day when I can boldly declare to my children that yes, your sister died but we will see her again? Will they someday come to understand that the tears welled up in my eyes are (mostly) from joy instead of pain?