Small ghosts trail behind so many families, invisible to the naked eye.
Rena bustles around her son's birthday party, passing food and welcoming guests. During a lull, we chat. 'Did you ever think of having a second child?' I ask. 'Oh, we did,' she says, 'but he died. He was eight weeks old. He got an infection, it entered his heart, and he died.'
I place my hand on her shoulder. There are no words.
So often, life is extinguished too soon: 12 weeks after conception; during an impossible birth; after a few short weeks of life. A two-year-old drowns. A three-year-old falls ill. So many families carry these little ones around. There are no words.
These are the invisible children. They hover around their parents at the kinder gates. They are the fleeting shadow in their siblings' eyes.
'Did I have a brother once?' asks a little boy, looking at my youngest and no longer sure. As his mother's eyes fill with tears, I master the lump in my own throat: 'Yes, darling, yes you did. A long time ago, you had a baby brother of your own.' He shouts triumphantly, 'I did have a brother!' and runs off. We mothers glance at each other, then look away. There are no words.
As each year rolls around, there are new things to grieve. It is the first day of school, and there is a small ghost at the end of a line where a living girl ought to be. It is Christmas, and a quiet space sits at the end of the table. It is a birthday, and a father avoids eyes in the lunchroom. The child is gone; no one here knows; he doesn't want to chat. There are no words.
And yet remembering is so important for understanding and healing. A grief unspoken turns inwards and suffocates. It isolates people, deadens them.
So how should we remember these children? Do we mark their birthdays or the day that they died? Do we talk about them in conversation, or sit with friends in silent solidarity, letting them know only that we, too, share in their loss?
Do we name them during All Saints services, and provide the chance to talk about them afterwards? How do we celebrate them?
One family I know has a meal each year on the birthday of their son. Last year he would have turned 21. Around the table they tell old stories, dusted off for the event; they dig out faded photographs.
Another has a quiet corner with a chair, some photographs, a kinder painting, a favourite teddy. When memories bubble up, they go there and sit.
Fifteen years late, a friend sews gifts for her daughters; neither saw the light of day, but the grief is still there, raw and painful and finally coming out. Each stitch is a step in the paradoxical journey of remembering and letting go. Each stitch is a move towards healing.
As friends our role is ambiguous. With families we know well, it is more straightforward: we listen, we reminisce, we might help mark a particular occasion. We send a card or flowers on what should be a first day of school. We send a hamper to a couple whose baby dies soon after birth.
But for newer friends, met after their loss? The biggest gift we can give is to slow down enough to notice the small ghosts, and to ask who they might be. Notice the gaps in a family. Notice the glistening eyes on the first day of school in the mother who has no one starting that year. Notice the reluctance of some parents to hold a baby, or chat with a two-year-old.
Allow acquaintances to avoid us as our children move into a particular age loaded with comparisons, and welcome them back when they are ready. Let them tell stories if they offer them, and accept them as sacred gifts of trust. Remember the dates. Birth, death, first day of school: these are the days when, year after year, a gentle smile or small remembrance might be welcome.
And reflect on the ghosts. Some are sleeping peacefully; others crawl; still others run after their fathers hooting with silent laughter. They are always there, a great cloud tumbling around every school and kinder gate, playing touch-last with the wind. It is up to us to observe them. It is up to us to celebrate their time on earth. It is up to us to help their families mourn.
Alison Sampson is the mother of three girls. She studied theology at Whitley College is a blogger and a regular contributor to Zadok Perspectives.