Holding The Space

The passing days after my younger daughter left us are filled with gloom. As parents who lose a little child, these are heavy in every sense that can be. I want to tell my little baby that we are forever holding your space in our hearts, in our arms, and in every ounce of our being. You are a part of us for times that were and for times that are yet to be.

I remember us taking the decision of having her after 8 years of our firstborn, for we felt our elder one would need a life companion, a home to always come to, long after we might have left. Her arrival allowed us to relive the joys of parenthood again. Joys that encompass the happiness of the whole world. We re-visited, at 40, what being new parents was like—the tiredness, the fatigue, and then the immense happiness that comes with seeing your children together. It is a feeling I don't think any parent can express in mere words.

The elder one suddenly had someone of her own. Someone she can be with all the time, irrespective of whether she wants it or not. The compulsive togetherness has its own peace and security. She was never alone. I knew she felt that. She could be a baby again, with toys, games, mess, senseless fun, and so many meaningful everyday moments.

Then how are we, parents and siblings, left behind to comprehend this absence? What do we explain to the human mind, which is merely a collection of such moments, past visuals, and thoughts of the future? Did we ever realise how huge the process of acceptance was? Our brains quickly adapt to happiness, the connections, and receiving, but fail miserably at letting go, at saying goodbye, at understanding what will never be anymore.

The Depth of Grief

As a mother who has lost a little child, I understand that no matter how thankful I always was to the creator for my children, I was never able to appreciate the gift enough. I never knew this pain of separation from my children. Now, I know that separation is just a fragment of what I am experiencing. My parents might have felt separation when they sent me off to college, when they married me off to live with someone else, or when we moved to another continent. But losing our baby to death is not merely separation; it makes separation feel like gifts we took for granted. We crave the simplicity of geographical distance. How we crumble with the fact that our baby is nowhere to be found, to hear, see, or hold. This separation brings a loneliness that is beyond measure. I wish no one ever feels this—it is a trauma that our brains may never fully cope with.

Holding Our Baby Close

Yet here we are. Days go by, slow as ever. The world continues, as it always has and always will. We learn every day, now, what it was like before she arrived, what it became when she came to us, and what it never will be after she left. But can she truly leave us? For we are not letting her go. As a family, we will always hold the space we created with so much love for her, just like families around the world do. We will always be complete, in every sense, with her, as all families around the world are with their children. We will continue, for as long as it is, and always with her. Never will there be a moment that can be without her, for now we get to keep her in the same space, always. For now, there can be no more separations. For now, this is where she will be, forever.

I go on, knowing this is the only space where she belongs. Her sister will always know where to find her. As parents, we can be with one child and still have the two of them right here. In this space, we are holding our baby. Stay, rest, and just be ours.