Rosie’s headstone was small.
ROSIE W.
BELOVED DAUGHTER.
Nine days separated the birth and death dates.
Hannah stood silently for a while.
Then she touched the stone.
“Hi.”
David started crying.
So did I.
Hannah unfolded the letter.
She read part of it silently.
Then she placed a copy beneath the flowers.
There was something written on the back in her handwriting.
I didn’t read it.
I didn’t ask.
That belonged to her.
On the drive home, the wooden chest sat beside Hannah in the back seat.
She had decided to keep it in her room.
Not hidden.
Not displayed like a shrine.
Simply there.
Before we left the cemetery, Hannah said something I will never forget.
“I don’t want Rosie forgotten.”
“She won’t be.”
“I don’t want everyone pretending she never existed anymore.”
