By Marissa Khosh 
Today I came across a picture and it made me cry. Then I came across another one and felt the full force of the memory, like a flashback.
It hit me from out of nowhere. I was searching through pictures on my phone, looking for something completely unemotional to accomplish a logical task I had to do. But I hadn’t noticed the dates I was searching through were dangerous.
The first picture was the evidence of you. Two pink lines on a pregnancy test. The second picture was the evidence of you slipping away almost before your existence had even been known. A negative test.
Your existence was only a whisper in time. A quiet, warm miracle delivered straight to my soul. You came small and you left small. But your impact was big. My love for you was big. My hopes for you were big. My grief was big too when your tiny life was quickly stolen.
I remember the moments captured in those pictures. I remember being very cautious but also incredibly happy to see those two pink lines. I remember the few days that followed as I lovingly, excitedly dreamed of you.
And I remember the horror I felt soon after as I stared hard at a pregnancy test with only one pink line. I remember taking another. And another. Wondering what was happening. Wondering if you had even been real. Until a blood test confirmed that you had indeed been real. But you had already left me.
The next day, the physical pain also told me you had been real. And now, whatever was left of your microscopic body was leaving me too.
How can so much love and emotion fit into such a short time? Such a small little life? For the rest of the world, it was only a work week of their life. But for me, it was the entire lifetime of one of my children. Seeing that picture—the only evidence I have of your life—it hit me hard today.
I guess it’s easy to fall into subconsciously believing you were only a dream. A thought in my head. A desire that didn’t quite happen. Even though I know better.
Sometimes I believe the lie that it wasn’t that big of a deal. That I should not be affected by your loss as much as I have been. Sometimes I listen to the lies that tell me I’m not allowed to grieve because you were barely there before you were gone. And what kind of loss is that compared to parents who have lost children they have held in their arms? It’s selfish, the lies tell me. I’m being overly emotional, they say.
I know better, of course. I know the value of your little life. But sometimes I believe those lies just a little bit. Just enough to keep me from dwelling on your brief existence. Just enough to try to brush off those short memories when they make me sad. But today, your memory found me. Those pictures struck me with the truth. Those two pink lines were undeniable at first.
Whenever a woman sees two pink lines on a pregnancy test, she knows her family has one more member in it. And seeing those two pink lines in the picture today was a blaring reminder that you were indeed there . . . and our family has a hole where you were meant to be.
When I saw that picture today, that’s when I fully realized that three years later, I’m still broken from losing you.
by Jenny Albers 
by Her View From Home 
