My childhood had me sitting in a garden with sunflower heads drooping and heavy with seeds, forming a safe canopy over my head. Golden petals rained softly down into my hair, while Marigolds and Snapdragons protected me from worldly harm. I guess Hannah never had that protection, Marigolds in shining armor riding Snapdragons, the noblest of steeds. Maybe she had it, but the knights left, leaving her defenseless against the world. I can still hear the words my mom said through tears, “Hannah has passed away.” Shock. Disbelief. Anguish. I reached for a hand to hold, any hand that could somehow share my pain. The thoughts bombarded me, Hannah won’t have a childhood above the age of three; I won’t have my cousin; Eli won’t have his sister; no more smile that would make even the sun seem dim; what about Toby and Jeanne? The thought of the parents who loved her so much losing her is what made the tears finally overflow. I thought of the little bows they put in her hair and the simple thing made me fall to pieces.
            I had been past the cemetery before, but never been in it. I never saw it as a sad place before that moment. The hydrangeas in full bloom seemed to be mocking the sorrow we all felt. Giving hugs to Toby and Jeanne was like trying to take away some of their pain. The harder you hugged the more you hoped that some of their grief would settle onto you. Everyone would have been happy to take some grief if just so that Toby and Jeannie could feel an ounce of happiness.
No black was worn that day. Jeanne and Toby wanted her to see color for the first time. Hannah was blind. Hannah never saw the soft color purple of lilacs or the day lilies, which were sunsets by themselves, orange sherbet with deep maroon. Now that she is in Heaven, she can see these things.
When my cousins brought out her final crib, white and gold, we put the flowers from our garden, Echinacea, Black Eyed Susans, and Daisies, next to her. While Father Hickey said words nobody could hear, my sisters, my cousin, and I stood hand in hand trying desperately to hold each other together. We cried into wet tissues because Hannah was gone. Jeanne, who wore sunglasses to hide her tears and tired eyes, leaned into Toby, her husband, the only other one who knew the pain, who understood. And Hannah was gone. The thought kept coming back; Hannah was gone.
When it comes to my family, we’re like a garden; we have our queen’s lace and our roses. We have our dandelions and clovers, and we have our irises and violets. We all rely on each other. We do better in different sunlight, but we will all come home for Christmas. Rest in peace, Hannah Hoxie.