The box was filled to the top and overflowing with bright pinks and white’s, stripes and polk-a-dots, and ruffle bums. Tiny shoes that I couldn’t believe ever fit her feet, bloomers that were missing their counterparts, and dresses that would be shirts on her now.
I started going through it days ago but had to set it aside because of the dull ache that started in my heart when I lifted the first tiny shirt up and out, shaking it out in front of me and remembering the day that she wore it.
It wouldn’t be worn in this house again.
Another baby would adorn the clothes in my hands and another mommy would hold onto the memories; memories that I had kept so close to my heart and associate so closely with the clothing that she had worn at the time.
But the clothing isn’t where the memory is kept.
I know this.
That doesn’t mean that letting the tiny shoes go, the ones that my daughter first wore when she had finally mastered the art of walking, is any easier, or that the headbands that she hated, and never wanted to keep on her head, are easily placed in the giveaway bin.
Each item I hold in my hand, run my fingers over it, let my memories take hold, remembering the baby I once had and the little girl she’s becoming. I allow myself to feel hollow over the baby we won’t be having, the sadness that overwhelms me when I think of not giving my daughter a sibling, and I weep.
And then I place the loved items in the box to go.
To be loved again.
To make more memories.
Because mine are in my heart.