I have four hours before the vigil. I wind through the path and stop at the bench. The same bench. What will I find this time? Life chirps around me, filling the lapses in thought. The baby. My chest feels naked without him.

Random conversation ebbs and flows. Moms so obliviously tired. Moms with their girlfriends. Moms with their children.

“I know, right?” A woman’s bright, happy voice laughs and then another sound cracks against my skull like a hammer. Such a large impact for such a small thing. I gasp and crank my body toward the sound. I slide closer to the edge of the bench. My tailbone screams.

One woman continues to talk about bedroom organization, the mess of books versus toys, what to feed her youngest daughter who’s just started solids. Hands plunge into a bag, fingers rummaging. I wait, but nothing.

Suddenly, something drops off the bench, and there it is again: the slightest tinkle. I lower to my hands and knees. “Let me help.” My fingers fuss around random objects—tampons, lipstick, wipes, keys, a compact.

“Thanks, but I’ve got it.” The woman scoops possessively at her belongings, but not before I find what I’m looking for. My fingers bump over the tiny bells, each of them as familiar to me as Jackson. I clutch them to my chest and almost weep. The tiny jingle is a welcome relief from all the uncertainty.

“Excuse me,” I interrupt. A few of the women stop talking at the urgency in my voice. I dangle the bells like a Christmas caroler. “Where did you get these?” My voice is clipped, and I rearrange my tone, soften it to get the answers I need.

“They’re my daughter’s. Can I have them, please?”

“Are you sure they’re hers?” I examine them again. “Did she find them somewhere, or…?”

“No.” The woman snatches them from my extended palm. “I bought them.”

“They’re so cute. They remind me of Christmas,” one of her friends says. “Though they can be a choking hazard. Does she know not to put them in her mouth?”

“Christmas will be here before we all know it; can you believe it?” another woman comments.

That sets off a chain of commentary about how fast the years are going and how none of their kids need toys, and can they boycott the holidays this year like Vince Vaughn and Reese Witherspoon did in Four Christmases?

“Where? Where did you buy them?” My voice knots in my throat.

“Some boutique store downtown.”

“Downtown Elmhurst?”

She doesn’t confirm. “The thing is, my son has some just like those. He lost them in this park. I’ve been looking everywhere.”

Someone smothers a laugh behind her hand.