The Box

Each year, on this day, I go to the back of my closet and dig out the box.  This is the box that holds all of her things.  I pull out the teeny tiny blanket that the nurses laid her on; the card that has her date and time of birth-- the one with the tiny hand and foot prints that are a little smeared because she was just too little; the little red dress I bought for her to wear when she was two months old; and I pull out all of the cards and notes from friends and family.  I usually read through all of the cards and feel the pain, but not this year.  I'm done with pain for a while.  I need a break.  So, I put everything back in the box with a little twinge of sadness, and try not to remember that she would be three years old this year, and that she missed out on playing "Ring Around the Roses" with her cousins at Christmas time.  I try to forget to think about what she would be like and I put the box back in the closet to collect a little more dust until next year.

I go downstairs.  I hug my kids.  I tell them it's their baby sister's birthday today and I make them some cookies with M&M's (the kind I don't like so I don't eat them all).  They are happy.  Three years are gone.  Life moves on.