At 57 it is not surprising to be an orphan. It is a passage that all who survive their parents go through. Fortunately, I had both mine up until this past winter-still it seems too short a time. I wish I’d had more time with them.

It is the small things that hurt the most; the wanting to go to the phone and call them up, talk about the day, make plans.  It’s the knowing that there is no one to call and say, “Mom, I made it home OK.” Or, “How ya doing today, Dad?”

The adult in me tells me death happens. But the child in me refuses to believe that there hasn’t been some kind of mistake. Perhaps, because writers for children are so used to identifying with the emotions of the young, it is simply hard to rid myself of that little bit of hope . . . maybe it was just a mix-up . . .  maybe tomorrow it’ll all be righted.

Then I find myself thinking about the orphans that have graced our finest children’s books: Anne of Green Gables, Mary Lennox of the Secret Garden, Harry Potter, Oliver Twist, Peter Pan, Frodo, Dorothy. How much we feel for them because of that empty space in their lives, because of their need to fill it somehow with surrogates, and because of their great capacity for hope.

True, it’s a child’s hope. But it’s a fiercely innocent flame that keeps the darkest dark at bay-the belief that life will get all sorted out soon. No small thing this endless capacity for hope. And how utterly truthful, no matter the age at which we are orphaned.

Keep reading,

Shutta