There’s a cedar hope chest sitting in our bedroom. It’s placed safely at the foot of the bed. A stranger walking by could cast it off merely as a decorative note in our home. They might take notice how carefully crafted it is, simple and elegant in its design, or maybe they would stop and ponder the pattern of the wood on the lid.

A casual passerby would never guess that my husband constructed this hope chest for our daughter, our beloved baby girl who we lost just days before her due date. They would not be able to see all the tears that were shed or sense the pride that seeps from every grain of wood. They wouldn’t notice the fear that strikes at the thought of ever losing the chest or any of its priceless contents. No, a stranger to grief would never guess the secrets of the hope chest.

In the hours following the onset of our new bleak reality, there was a prolonged discussion between my husband and I over where to keep our daughter’s belongings. It was as if suddenly there existed no place in the world that was special enough to hold her things – our only physical reminders that she existed, the now sacred mementos linking her to our family. We decided, after hours of searching online for a solution and coming up empty handed, that he would build her a hope chest. On a morning shortly after my release from the hospital, we found ourselves wandering around the home improvement store searching for the perfect pieces of cedar to construct the box. I had had a C-section less than a week prior and every step was met with a twinge of pain in my abdomen only to be immediately eclipsed by the realization of the gaping emptiness in my heart and aching in my arms. I wore a simple black dress that day as we walked the aisles of the store, needing an escape from our apartment which seemed to be caving in around us like a heavy, suffocating plague. The dress was one of the few outfits that managed to fit over the saggy curves and it did a respectable job of hiding any indication that I had been pregnant just a few days before.

Even so, everyone’s eyes seemed to be watching me. They could see the invisible words written on my face boldly declaring to the world that my child was stillborn. I felt their stares burning into the back of my head and I could hear their silent screams angrily shouting, “Failed mother! She let her baby die! You don’t belong here!” Nowhere felt safe. The world had become a terrifying place.

We took our purchases and headed back home. And, after some additional planning and the obtaining of hinges and handles, my husband took his tools out of storage and in our small one-bedroom apartment created the beautiful cedar hope chest. A perfect gift from a father to his precious child. The lid is simple pattern of light and dark cedar pieces making the box distinct and giving it the hint of sass that our sweet girl exuded even while in the womb. Each knot in the wooden boards telling a tale of its former life just as the contents of the chest reveals her story to those who look inside.

We lined the interior with her baby blanket. It had been a last minute purchase on my part, not knowing how the unpredictable March weather would play out, I had worried about her being cold when we brought her home. It was a soft gray blanket with white stars, a perfect addition to the carefree clouds that already lined her crib sheets. It stings knowing that she is now a part of the very sky I tried so hard to emulate in her nursery. I tell myself that perhaps she was always meant to be among the clouds and wishing stars, that all the kicks I felt during pregnancy was her trying to spread her wings and soar. Yet my heart knows this is a lie. My heart knows she was supposed to be wrapped safely in our arms and that we were never meant to let her go. But you try and tell yourself miraculous lies in the midst of grief.

After the chest was completed it took me several more weeks to manage to put her belongings in it. I couldn’t stomach the thought of packing up her things, shutting her away in a box never to be seen. My husband uttered gentle words of encouragement telling me there was no rush and that we weren’t packing her away we were simply keeping her things safe until we see her again. Little by little a special selection of her clothes, books and toys, along with the cards and gifts family and friends had sent us, made their way into the hope chest. Each time I put an item in it felt like a piece of me was getting placed in there too. The pieces of a person I no longer recognized, a woman who dared to have frivolous wishes and dreams.

I look at the cedar chest everyday sitting at foot of the bed. Some days the sight of it is crippling knowing that instead of a lifetime with our daughter we are left with trinkets and ghosts of what should have been. Occasionally, I have the courage to open it and sort through her belongings, allowing myself to be immersed in her presence. But on most days I simply look at the chest, always gently running my hand across the top as I gaze down feeling the smooth sanded cedar beneath my fingers. It is in these tender moments I recognize the love surrounding it. The love that was poured into the chest’s creation and the love that forever bonds our little family together.

I know as the months and years carry on we will add more to the hope chest, filling it with gifts and letters to our angel, always wishing we could watch her grow but taking comfort in the chest as it stands guarding our most precious memories. An unwavering caretaker protecting our hearts and treasures… until we can see her again.

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Amy lives in Maryland with her incredible husband, Jason, and their black cat, Ziggy. Their beloved daughter, Savannah Grace, was stillborn at 39 weeks on March 29, 2016.

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