Dear Sister,

ONE Christmas Eve, when I was seven, my dad took me to the local town. We went to the only shop that stocked toys. He asked me to pick something I liked. As I was choosing I was aware of a conversation between Dad and the shopkeeper Dolly. I chose a jewellery set, 100pc plastic. Dolly urged me to pick something bigger and better — but I had eyes only for the jewellery and wanted to wear it immediately. Dad said ‘no I would get it on Christmas Day’. With shocking clarity the penny dropped, the secret magic was shattered. I said nothing.

It was dark as we headed home. We travelled into the countryside and I became aware of candles burning in the farmhouses. They were like beacons of peace and gentleness. Our car was surrounded by the soft flickering lights and a new magic occurred for me, not secret, but strong, visible and healing.

Years later I spoke with dad about that homeward journey. He remembered it vividly. He explained the circumstances of that time to me. My mum had travelled by bus to Dublin two weeks previously to purchase some Christmas gifts. On her homeward journey the bus pulled into a hotel for a rest break. As mum exited the hotel the bus was pulling away and she ran to flag it down. That night she went into premature labour and you, my little sister, came into the world sleeping, stillborn at six months.

As my dad was recounting the story he was crying. “The little girl was small but perfectly formed. I made a small wooden box, wrapped her in a blanket and buried her on the land.” (Unbaptised, she could not at that time be buried in consecrated ground).

I wish I had asked him where you were buried but I didn’t want to add to his grief. “It was the hardest thing I have ever done,” he said. Every Christmas Eve, at dusk, I light candles in all my windows. In that soft healing light, I remember mum and dad, but especially you my tiny perfect sister.

After I had a miscarriage my mum mentioned she had had three miscarriages — “one very bad one,” she said, but she said no more.

Christmas Eve is my absolute favourite time in the year. My home is transformed by a gentle healing glow and I experience the magic of life.

In anticipation of your birth I don’t know if mum and dad had chosen names for you. For me, you have always been Amy. I love the name, I did not use it for my daughters, it was yours alone. The only thing I have ever been able to do for you was to give you your name.

I wish I had been able to talk with mum and dad about you and that they had a chance to share all the tiny details of your brief life. I hope they and you, Amy, like your name. I send my love to all three of you. Grainne Grainne Doyle, Ennis Road, Limerick