I just had one of those daily heartbreaks, those ones that grieving parents must face as we continue with life after the death of our child.
My four-year old daughter, Ella, was only two-years old when her oldest brother, Nolan, died. At the time, he was such an immense part of her short life. He was the one who would take her for walks in the stroller, play with her outside on the swings, and more. After his death, she would still talk about him often. She’d mention those walks in the stroller, those afternoons swinging in our backyard. Slowly, over time, her mentions of him have lessened. He’s going to be such a small part of her life as time passes. There’s now more time of her life where he has been dead than he was alive. That makes me so sad in so many ways.
Just a few moments ago, she drew me a picture. When she handed it to me, I asked her to put her name on it. I said, “It’s hard for me to keep track of who drew what picture when I have five children.” She said, “No, there’s only four!” Then she caught herself and said, “Oh you mean with Nolan. I didn’t know you counted Nolan.” To which I replied, “We always count Nolan.”