She would have been 21 this year.
She lives on in photos taken at different ages, but none older than 14. Catherine at 8, lying in bed, her stuffed monkey close to her heart. When you squeezed its tummy, the ears spun around. She loved that crazy thing, so we had him tucked into the casket to keep her company.
They dressed her in a favorite sweatshirt and jeans, as if that would keep her warm in the frozen ground of January. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Our thoughts dangled crazily like the balloons tethered to the bouquets in the living room. After a few days, we sent the flowers over to the local retirement home, but we let the balloons meander around the house at the whims of the furnace currents.
The doorbell rang from morning ’til night, heralding the arrival of hams, casseroles and cakes; all the while, the silver Mylar star silently bobbed up and down the hall. Its presence lent authenticity to the atmosphere of disbelief so necessary to our survival.
The women of our church organized the food and cleaned the house while the men detailed our car and shoveled the snow. The mail carrier and the local florist came to know us as they delivered condolences both written and fragrant. The people, the flowers, the food, the balloons – all served as a buffer against the initial shock waves that radiated from Katie’s snowmobile accident as our world disintegrated.
Days passed, and the balloons slowly floated to the floor. Months passed, and our hopes and dreams for our daughter did the same. Years are now passing, and our everyday demeanor suggests that the jagged wounds to our ragged hearts have healed. In reality, I imagine that losing a child is like losing a limb. You become accustomed to its absence, but life is never the same. The pain is always at the ready to remind you of what you have lost, sometimes with searing intensity.
For a while, it was easy to guess what her life would have been like – to finish high school and hopefully go on to college. It’s becoming more difficult to envision, as her friends have begun to follow their own paths. Lark’s a mom, Rachel attends the Air Force Academy, and Sarah is a graphic designer. Jackie just returned from Malawi, while Andrea just left for Argentina. They speak Spanish and Russian, geek speak and baby talk. It’s their time to travel, learn, fall in love, and live their lives. By outward appearances, it seems that Catherine’s life was summed up by the trinkets and treasures we salvaged from her room.
“Do you remember?” I want to ask them. “Do you remember how she wore her baseball cap backwards, and dressed like a refugee from Goodwill? Her laugh, robust and real? The way she was kind to everyone, including the mean girls of middle school? How December marked her Santa hat season? That she listened to Christian rock and passionately pounded the drums? How she was infinitely patient with small children, and they loved her? That she lived to fish?
“Do you remember that she was always there for you?”
Indeed, they do. Perhaps that is why they stay in touch. These days, our mail carrier brings newsletters from the mission field, wedding invitations, and birth announcements. With the honor of being remembered, we dance at their weddings and shower their babies, toast their diplomas and pray for their safety. Even though there is pain in the loss of our precious daughter, we are thankful that a part of her goes with each young woman who was lucky enough to be her friend.
And every year, on her birthday, we trek to her favorite fishing hole. We release balloons to fly wild and free; not bound by earthly currents, but soaring in color and beauty as they make their way heavenward, to Catherine.
Rachel Ophoff is a writer, Christian speaker and a partner in business with her husband, Kevin.
