Loving the Missing
I recently visited my daughter Hannah's grave. I have not been there for many years. I do what I always do. I lay on the grass and remember her hands.
My sister Laura helps me wash and decorate the gravestone. We eat a picnic and share memories of Hannah. While we watch ducks and their babies, a grey heron stands at the edge of the pond.
We cry and we laugh. We clean up dinner and walk to the car. As we pull away, I feel the prescient sadness of loving someone and missing them. I feel grateful for the tears. Twenty-two years after my daughter's death, I realize I will never forget how much I love her.
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