Healing a Heart
By Sara Barry
I found my forget-me-not charm the other day while scrabbling my fingers through a dish on my dresser for an earring match. The charm is tiny, the size of a baby finger tip. The silver-tone metal forms a five-petaled flower. Below it hangs a tiny green glass “emerald,” the birthstone for May, the month Henry was born.
At first I only wore it on the days I expected to be extra hard: the anniversary of his death, a grief group meeting, Mother’s day . . . I wore it, as a talisman on the days I knew I would need more strength.
And then I started wearing it every day, because it turns out that ordinary days were filled with lots of little hard moments and anything you can do to get through helps.
That necklace survived daily use and two grabby infants. Then one day, the chain caught on a low branch of our pear tree and snapped.
I could have gone to the store to get a new chain. I could have put it on another chain I already owned. But I didn’t. I decided to try not wearing the little flower.
I felt lighter without it, somehow, though that tiny charm couldn’t have weighted an ounce. I felt buoyant.
I noticed, though, that I kept putting my hand to the spot where my collar bone joins. The spot where for so long my forget-me-not sat.
I had gotten into the subconscious habit of touching it when I talked about Henry or a strong memory of him surfaced or grief washed over me in a wave.
My hand went to that tiny charm to steady myself when people asked, “Do you have other children?” or when I saw a child his would-be age or heard the name Henry.
It became a reflex to reach up, as if there were strength or magical solace in that tiny metal flower.
Whatever power that charm had, it’s gone. The forget-me-not charm is now just a trinket gathering dust on my dresser. I don’t need it these days. But for years it was my touchstone, something to steady and help me, a place to pause while I took a deep breath and found the words I didn’t want to say.
We always carry some piece of our children with us, and sometimes we carry something else with us too. Not a reminder—we don’t need that—but something to hold onto, literally, physically, when we feel like we’re drowning.
What do (or did) you carry with you, literally, as a sign of your child? Can you imagine letting it go?
