24

I turned 24 years old in 1985. I had two university degrees, was living with my parents (temporarily) and had a job working in my chosen field (journalism) at the local weekly newspaper. In July that year, I got married, moved far away from my family to Toronto, found a cute little apartment in a nice area of the city and job hunted and explored my new city while setting up housekeeping. My post-student adult life was just beginning, and was so full of promise. It was an exhilarating time in my life. Everything seemed possible.   

In 1998, I was 37, and (finally) pregnant for the first time. It also turned out to be the last time, although I didn't know it then. (I did fear it, though.)  The baby girl I had long dreamed and planned for was stillborn at 26 weeks on August 7th. 

It's 24 years later. I am now 61 years old. My baby girl would be 24 later this year, in November, had she been born on or close to her due date. She never drew a breath, but her presence still looms large in our lives. I no longer cry every day over her -- but I still think about her in some way every day. Who would she be today? What would she be doing? Where would she be living, working, studying?  

We'll never know. All we know is we loved her then, we love her still, we will always love her. And wonder...