Inside was a carefully folded baby blanket.
A tiny pair of socks and a pacifier still sealed in its packaging.
And beneath them, a handwritten letter.
Our daughter, Emma, lived for nineteen hours. Packing up her things nearly destroyed me.
Someone once told me that love doesn't disappear when a child disappears – it just has to find somewhere else to go.
Please let these things help another baby.
He just needs to find somewhere else to go.
I pressed my mouth shut with a trembling hand.
I reached out for the next cart, the next box.
Another blanket and a knitted elephant toy.
Another letter.
This is what started it:
Our son, Owen, was born stillborn at thirty-eight weeks…
Another letter.
The third letter began: We lost twins...
The fourth: I never thought I would survive burying my little girl...
By the sixth cart, I could barely see through my tears.
The carts no longer looked eerie.
They seemed sacred.
Someone had gathered all this sadness into one place.
But none of the letters explained why.
The carts no longer looked eerie.
Just as I reached another cart, I heard a car door close on the street behind me.
I'm back.
Several of my neighbors were standing on the sidewalk, looking into my yard.
Cars were stopping on the sidewalk.
People were coming out... Families.
An elderly woman took a step forward.
"Kate;"
Cars were stopping on the sidewalk.
I nodded.
"My name is Linda. I left the blue stroller."
I looked towards him.
Linda smiled sadly.
"My grandson never came home from the NICU."
Another woman raised her hand.
"I left the blue stroller."
"The pink one was my daughter's," he said. "She lived for six weeks."
Then a man approached and stood next to a green cart.
"This belonged to my son."
One by one, people took a step forward.
