It’s the little things, Keren, that bring you back to my mind. A picture, a conversation, a story, a dress or shirt on one of your little sisters used to be yours, even a big syringe that is in the toy box in the corner.
Last night it was pictures of your sisters piling pine needles on your bronze plaque.
It’s more than nine months since you left us and now the grass is thick where we stood in the bitter cold and snow, setting a little box with your ashes into the ground. The large pine tree that stands overhead shades and covers the ground, and this time of year drops needles.
Your sisters danced and dashed across the wide space, enjoying the freedom of the empty field. Then they gathered pine needles and began to make little piles on the corners of your plaque.
You’d hardly know little Bug. Ten months ago at your service she was just beginning to string a few words together. Now she talks constantly and clearly. Her memories of you are slight, but she knows the history. You have influenced her more than she realizes.
Bear, in contrast, carries you close to her heart and often talks of you. She loves to visit your school and talk to your friends. She ponders, out loud, what you might be doing right now. She’s very proud of you, her older sister. Just the other night she was reminding her grandfather of something about you. Bossy and aggressive as she can be at times, she carries a tenderness to other children that she learned from living with you and caring for you. Your little brother will only know your pictures, but he too will absorb the sensitivity to children who are different.
Yes, the months have flown by. Winter will soon be here and the snow will fly. The pine tree over your plaque will hang with deep drifts. Snow will sweep across the empty field.
Maybe I’ll go back and walk in the snow and remember you. Tears will freeze on my cheeks. You’ve left a hole, little girl. The edges aren’t as rough as they were when you suddenly left us, but it is a hole that will never close. That is as it should be.
Your sisters pile autumn’s needles across the plaque. Their life goes on, but your place as the first child is secure.
