The Landmark of the lost

Content Warning: This story contains themes of child loss and grief, which may be distressing to some readers.

The heat of the sun stroked my cheeks before I could even open my eyes. It was a new day. As I slowly climbed out of my tent, I stepped into the sunshine. Arms reached toward the heavens, I took a breath in. There is always peace in the first moments my eyes open. Then the cold reality hits me—and even the warmth of the sun can’t bring comfort while my heartbeat of joy is missing.

The professional searchers greet me with conditioned empathy. They may have searched countless times, but this is my first—and hopefully only—search this cracked heart can take. I shouldn’t be here. I should be dining on the million little things that go into my crown as a mother.

I’m given a map, and if I could, I would laugh. It’s always been a joke—I couldn’t read these things. But now it doesn’t matter. My skills don’t matter. What matters is her breathing in the morning air and knowing her mommy will find her.

At first, they wouldn’t let me go, but even they realized my idle mind is a dangerous place for me to dwell in.

I concentrate on my steps, my feet hitting the ground. My voice doesn’t have the same strength as my soul, so I rely on others to call her name. The first two days, people tried to engage me. Now they leave me to my thoughts—not like they could pull me out of them to begin with. I hate their tone when they say my name, their eyes on me when we’ve hit a turning point. But most of all, I hate that my arms are empty.

By the end of the week the last string of hope breaks. What once felt like a small safe haven of nature now is vast, empty, and cold. I curl into a ball most nights with only my longing and fear to keep me company. Every morning there are fewer and fewer people huddled around the warmth of the fires.

The world tells me I should just go home as the days turn to weeks. That feels so normal—and I don’t want normal. The professionals have given up. But I won’t. Even if this tent becomes my grave, at least I will be close to the last memory of her.

By the next day, I am alone. Left in my pain—and the extra missing posters left by those who had normal to escape to.

I am resolved to stay here as a living statue dining in the memories of grief. By the end of fall, my tent slowly starts to fall apart from being used too long. I don’t recognize the tears since they reflect me. The man and daughter who bring me supplies bring an old run-down trailer. He lost a son in these very woods once, so I suppose he understands a bit of my core. He never lingers long, but I recognize the shared grief in our pleasantries and I am grateful.

Every once in a while, the windows of the trailer become screens of my past. I can see me and her packing up the car. In her small hand is a pink bear—the blanket on it is shattered. I tell her she’s too big for that thing. Then I sneak it in my bag because it keeps her safe at night. Then we are out of the tent. She has picked beautiful flowers and made them into delicate chains to decorate the tent windows with. Then with a flash, she is begging me to look at the magic of the night. We hope for shooting stars but are just as enchanted with the fireflies. She loves them because they are made of all the children’s wishes in the world. I remember thinking, I hope that’s true—and finding out the next day it’s not. This brief break in heartache is shattered with the events of the day she went missing.

She wanted me to go to the creek, but there was a man fishing down there. I didn’t want to disturb him. I wished I would have. We laid in the tent with the sunlight catching me in all the right spots. I read her favorite book. Her and my eyes were heavy. It’s funny—I don’t remember mine being heavy at all. But I do remember they woke to the scream of my baby. I got up. I ran toward the scream—toward her—but she was gone. He was gone. All that was left was her pink little bear. She must have had a tea party. She drew it in the sand. So innocent—and in a split second, stolen.

I now live in silence and know each noise my prison makes. As I walk through town it seems my story of being has been replaced with words like crazy and foolish. If I still had a whole heart, they might affect me more. I dwell in my forgotten memories as a tribute to her that gives me purpose.

At night I hear the whispers of the forgotten. Their lullabies swirl around the aches I hold onto, so I am reminded I live. Locals drop off supplies as I become the landmark of this land. I am the memory of the failed.

I wake up before the sun can greet me. It has been a long time since I felt something different. I’m not scared like my head tells me I should be. I move around the trailer without thinking, allowing my body to do the work for me. Something is off. It feels like the day before my new life replaced it. I can almost hear her begging to go to the creek—she’s so close now.

The sun greets me with its warmth, and I close my eyes and step into the sunshine, hand outstretched, as my little one guides me home.