Two years ago, I lost my small baby. The few things he left behind felt like the final weak strands that connected me to him. There was a small cedar chest with his favorite hoodie, which was soft from being worn and washed many times; his tiny sneakers, which were scuffed but full of memories from all the adventures he never got to finish; colorful drawings he had made with bright crayons; and a delicate silver bracelet that had once belonged to my grandmother. That chest was more than just a place to put things. It was a safe place for my heart and a calm place where I could retain the laughter, warmth, and love that used to fill our home so completely.
Caleb was just five years old. He was full of energy, had a lot of questions, and a smile that could make even the toughest days better. He kept asking me questions in a calm voice and reached out to hold my hand. I mostly think about those times now, and they make me joyful and sad at the same time. I thought I knew everything there was to know about happiness and life until I lost him. For the next few days, there was nothing but quiet and pain. The world felt colder, emptier, and slower in some way. At night, when the house was quiet, I would open the cedar box and hold his garments close. The slight smell of his bubblegum shampoo made me think of him, how much he meant to me, and how much I loved him then and still do.
But no one else can bear your pain. Lorraine, my mother-in-law, never seemed to comprehend that. She talked about mending like it was a plan. She told me that retaining Caleb’s items was holding me back and that I needed to “move on” and “let go.” I tried to disregard what she said and told myself that everyone grieves in their own way, but it was hard to keep in touch with my reality when the people I cared about most couldn’t see how much I was hurting. Then one day, I arrived home to a silence that was too much for me to take. There was no box made of cedar. They threw away all of Caleb’s clothes, paintings, and other things that I had kept dear to me. It seemed like memories might be thrown away like trash. She thought she was doing the right thing when she made that choice, but she didn’t know that she was taking away the final things that reminded us of Caleb in our home.
The pain was so intense that I couldn’t breathe. At the same time, I was mad, sad, and miserable. But I knew I had a choice even though I was feeling a lot of things. I could let my fury take over, or I could find the strength to defend Caleb’s memory in the few ways I still could. I picked up the few things I could find—pieces from his life that someone else hadn’t thrown away yet—and spent the night painstakingly cleaning each one. As I brushed his clothes and smoothed out his drawings, I told myself that love isn’t just in things; it’s also in the heart and in memories that no one can take away.
It pained even more to see that a silver bracelet that belonged to my grandma and meant a lot to both of us was gone. I learned later that it had been sold. The news hit me hard. The bracelet wasn’t just a piece of jewelry; it stood for love, family, and the past. But that awful incident ruined everything for me. I learned that I didn’t need anyone’s permission to cry when I wanted to. No one else can tell you how long a parent-child connection lasts or what it looks like.
With my husband’s quiet help, we steadily built a small memorial in our yard. Caleb adored the flowers in this quiet spot, and the leaves let the sun shine through in a nice way. It seems like a nice breeze is carrying his laughter. There are live things around the cedar box that make me think of new beginnings and hope. I can sit here in this holy location and feel like I’m with him. Sometimes I talk to him like he’s still here, and other times I don’t. Caleb’s death left a hole in my heart that will never entirely heal; but, that hole is also filled with love that keeps growing, even if we are no longer together.
I learned that grief is a great burden that changes how you love and live. It’s not my sadness that keeps Caleb’s memory alive; it’s recognizing the link we had and the brightness he brought into the world that still shines in me every day.