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The Space Between, Part Two: Lily’s Day and the Quiet Ways We Remember



The week between Father’s Day and Lily’s birthday is one I move through carefully.

It’s not marked on any calendar. There are no cards to buy. No traditions the world offers.

But in our house, it’s a sacred space—a liminal stretch of days where grief hums just beneath the surface and memory becomes its own kind of ritual.

It’s the third year without her. Not new, but not easy.

The missing shifts shape, but it never leaves.

Time Softens, But Doesn’t Erase

I used to brace myself for these days—white-knuckling through them, trying to “do something” to make them meaningful.

Now I’m learning that meaning doesn’t always come from effort. Sometimes, it comes from noticing.

From the sound of birds early in the morning.

From the way light moves through that rainbow catcher we hung last week.

From the twins texting a photo of a flower that reminded them of her, unprompted.

These are the quiet threads that stitch memory into the present.

Honoring Without Performance

We won’t host anything this year.

No balloons. No big gestures.

But we will honor her.

Maybe I’ll bake something she loved.

Maybe we’ll go for a walk at sunset.

Maybe I’ll write her name in the sand, or in my journal, or say it out loud just for me.

That counts.

All of it counts.

Love doesn’t expire just because time passes.

And neither does our right to remember.


Life doesn’t pause for grief.

The week fills itself with errands, emails, dinner to make.

But I’ve learned to carve out the moments.

There will be quiet in the weekend.

A little more stillness the day before her birthday.

I can already feel myself reaching for it—that space. That breath.

That pause I’ve come to need and welcome.

It’s not much, but it’s enough.


The Weight and Wonder of the In-Between

This “in-between” space has taught me things.

That grief is not just sadness—it’s love, transformed.

That remembering isn’t always loud—it can be soft, sacred, and slow.

That presence is a kind of prayer.

I keep returning to that rainbow catcher.

Some mornings, when the light hits just right, the room is covered in tiny flecks of color—dancing, shifting, shimmering.

For a moment, everything feels both full and empty at once.

Maybe that’s what this space really is:

The fullness of love.

The ache of absence.

The miracle of both being able to exist side by side.

If You’re in This Space Too

If you’re holding your own grief this week—

Whether for a child, a parent, a love, a version of yourself—know this:

You don’t have to prove your pain.

You don’t have to make it visible to make it valid.

The quiet ways you remember matter.

Even if you just whisper their name.

Even if you do nothing at all but feel.

You are not alone.

We are here—together—in the space between.


P.S. If the rainbow catcher in this piece resonated with you, here’s the one we have in our home.

The way it scatters light across the room—especially on quiet evenings—has become its own kind of ritual.

👉 Rainbow Light Catcher – Amazon Affiliate Link

If you purchase through this link, I may earn a small commission—at no extra cost to you. Thank you for supporting my writing and this space.)

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