What Might Have Been

Record my misery; list my tears on your scroll—are they not in your record?

—Psalm 56:8

If you’ve been marked by what might have been, you don’t forget. You know the day, the years. You know when the baby would have been born. You know exactly what anniversary you’d be celebrating, if the wedding had happened. You know exactly how old she’d be right now, if she were still alive. You’ll never forget the last time you saw your child, or the last time cancer was a word about someone else’s life, or the day that changed absolutely everything. It makes the calendar feel like a minefield, like you’re constantly tiptoeing over explosions of grief until one day you hit one, shattered by what might have been.

I don’t know what date it is for you—what broke apart on that day, what was lost, what memories are pinned forever to that day on that calendar. But I hope that on that day you hold yourself open and tender to the memories for just a moment. As one who also grieves, I grieve with you, for whatever you’ve lost, too, for what might have been.