I spoke to her of Eleni when she was only days old. I remember standing before Eleni’s photos, the house empty aside from us, tears trailing down my cheeks, and the words I needed to say out loud, This is your sister, Eleni. I held my new, healthy baby close and felt how hard it would be to tell her this story when it mattered to her.

But already, it mattered to me to begin.

Elora has grown up in a house with photos of her older, absent sister a part of our world. From time to time, I would tell her Eleni’s name. She learned that the baby was her sister, and that was enough. Actually, it was welcome news, as she loved babies. So nice to know she had one of her own.

Interesting also that this sister had a box of things that belonged to her, tucked away in the closet. Soft toys, a shiny red apple, clothes and blankets that weren’t ever Elora’s, but only Eleni’s. Even a special photo album all about her.

Elora never asked the dreaded question, “Where is Eleni?” for many years, but that some baby things were never hers - this puzzled her.

I’ve wondered how Elora would really meet Eleni. What must that signify? When would it count? No, I’d reconsider, she already knows her for Eleni is no secret in this house. Still the nagging feeling remained that she doesn’t know until she realizes Eleni is missing.

Death and suffering are not weights I wish to bring to any young child, but the absence of their reality is the absence of Eleni. There is no real way to include Eleni in our family story without carrying the pain of her life and death along with her. So, I waited for what must be to unfold.

Now Elora is four and half years old. She is not a child of many questions, but at last there are some. It happened a few weeks ago that she asked me at the dinner table, Mama, where is Eleni?

I told her that Eleni is with God. In a few sentences I gave her an answer that filled her simple needs and then we went on eating. For me it was an important shift, an unveiling, letting out a breath I’ve been holding on to for a very long time.

I’ve seen that Elora does understand some of the weight of this story. She loves to look at our family photo albums - I print out physical photos every year. In the photos of our family without Elora, when we tell her that she was not with us yet, she insists that she was just really, really tiny! And now when she sees Eleni’s photos she remarks that Eleni is with God, without fear, without question. But, still, perhaps, with a little loss because she would rather that Eleni were here, to have a sister to play with.

Elora lingered over these photos last week. She wanted to know about that tube in Eleni’s stomach, but the function of it was not enough. Why did she need a tube to eat? Mama, did it hurt? Yes, Elora, I do think it hurt. And then the sadness. And then, she knows.

I have been thinking of Eleni a lot lately, as spring comes again. When the early spring flowers bloom and the baby goats are born, I remember how strange it was that these beautiful things happened so shortly after Eleni’s traumatic birth.

The contrast was so terribly sharp. I asked myself then, how can it be that goats are born healthy in the field, while my once-healthy baby is born disastrously in a hospital? How can it be that God sustains such beauty while allowing terrible, wasteful loss.

Tonight I was practicing my Dutch by reading an article from Flow magazine. An interview with the American author Gary Ferguson struck me to the core. It was his words about the loss of his wife, but also I think the experience of reading about the intersection of grief and nature in another language. Hearing that experience echoed in a foreign tongue - both fresh and familiar.

He says, “The birds that were here when Jane still lived, still come…. Everything continues as it was. First you think: How can it be? How can the world simply go on? But it just happens.”

At first, in my grief, I experienced the unchanging course of nature as confusing and irritating. Now, like Gary, I find it healing. The beautiful spring reminds me of Eleni, the heartbreaking loss of her health, and Elora now begins to really ask me about her. Both rememberings simple are. I accept the fullness of both.

In English, “That is what we often find so difficult: we set ourselves against what happened, we don’t want it. In nature you realize: this is where I am now, this is what is happening, at this moment. And this helps you to accept.”

I am grateful that I’ve had years to heal and process and grow in acceptance before Elora began asking her questions. She will continue meeting Eleni and her story and she will someday share our deep pain and loss. I am her mother-guide, both protecting and welcoming this meeting.

I think parts of it will be beautiful, like petals floating down on the breeze.