For most of my parenting life I’ve been the leader.

As in, the one who leads.

Both literally and by example. Leading my toddlers safely across the street. Taking the lead on baking adventures. Being the first to cross the river on the moss-covered log. Jumping into the pool to test how cold the water is and waiting, with open arms to catch the next in line. Being kind to a stranger in the hopes that the little ones who see might follow in my footsteps.

For the first time in my life as a parent, I have to follow. Clara has gone somewhere that I’ve never been.

In the early days after her passing I was beside myself with sorrow over not being able to have gone first to prepare the way. To tell her what to expect. To assuage her fears. To let her know that she was in good hands. To give her arms to jump into and a soft place to land. To provide safe passage. To never be alone.

Death has forced me to be a follower. And I’m torn between wanting to follow close behind and remaining here, where my job as a parent and wife isn’t yet over.

My hope? That wherever Clara is, time passes differently than it does here on earth. And that when I finally catch up to her, she’ll have been so busy taking pictures of sunsets and birds that she’ll barely have noticed its passing.