Footprints
One of my most treasured posessions is a set of hand and foot prints. Four years ago today, when we lost our son , the beautiful nurses at P/SL Hospital made an impression of David's feet and hands in plaster--a keepsake to remind us that he was a real, flesh-and-blood person. This plaster oval sits on the piano, largely forgotten in the business and beauty of getting through the day. Once in a while, though, the prints catch my eye, and I run my fingers over them. They are so tiny. Footprints are the perfect symbol for loss. The print itself is not an object, but a lack of one--an empty space left by something that was here, and is no longer here. Occasionally I indulge the urge to think about what life would be like if he hadn't died. I imagine what it would be like to raise a son, to teach him how to be a man, even as I continue to learn myself. I watch Katie taking such meticulous care of her dolls, and wonder what she would have been like as a big sister.