The one in heaven whom I never forget.
Rarely a day where I don't think of her and yet I don't know exactly what to DO with her.
I am filling out the "family" folder in Kelsey's communication device when we first received it.
It is pre-populated with "brother", "sister", "mom", "dad", etc.
How do I let her grow up knowing her story and feeling "good" (comfortable) about it?
Even though Kelsey's school is also at this hospital, I know.
Every year it arrives, a special night just for her.
Usually it is Christmas.
I do not think I could have gone anyway. It still hurt too much. Too personal to go to such a public place.
I stood in the doorway inside the hospital with Kelsey in my arms. I strained to hear her name. I love to hear her name.
Last year Bryan, Kelsey and I went as a family. It had snowed. They held it inside in the new part of the hospital. We made a luminary with her name and the messages to her. I got to go up to the front and say her name.
We put her luminary in front of the big picture windows. The snow was falling softly outside in the courtyard.
It was beautiful.
This card recently was for a different event. It went up on the refrigerator, just a as the reminder for Kelsey's field trip did.
October is infant loss remembrance month. Fitting for me because it was the girls' due date and when we chose to bury Kaitlyn.
The event was great. As I was leaving, Bryan said to have fun and the irony of "having fun" at a baby loss event was not lost on me. But it is fun in a way. To know you are not alone.
I saw families and couples, new little babies honoring older siblings they never get to meet until heaven. What touched me most was a daddy there by himself to think about his son.
There was a blonde little girl running around with her balloon.
I know that the hospital truly does not "remember". I know that some computer somewhere kicks out our names on a list that we would never choose to be on.
But at the same time, someone designed that invitation. Someone made the program. Someone address the envelope. Someone licked the stamp to send it to my home.
And for a moment, someone remembers.