![]() Why not balloons with messages inside that drifted high into the sky, carried by the wind? Perhaps it’s because each lock has a key that opens it up. I sometimes wonder how this bridge of locks began. I walked away from that bridge, feeling lighter as I’d left part of myself there, and somehow hearing an answer back. I felt as if I could pick out my son’s lock even if it were ten layers deep. It would be so easy for it to be lost among the others. The bridge was filled with layers of locks. I wrote Brendan’s initials on them, darkening it, making each letter thicker, trying to make it stand out. The men overcharged us by at least three times, but I didn’t care. My husband Michael gave Zack and Lizzie some money. There were men who’d spread sheets on the ground, filled with little locks. I wanted to be part of this crowd and leave something behind on this bridge. RELATED: Grief is a Constant Companion for the Mother Who’s Lost a Childīut this was a celebration of love, and it filled me with a little seed of hope. There was a panic building inside me I could taste in the back of my throat. ![]() I could barely breathe with all the people pushing past me. There were people crying as they wrote down initials honoring a lost loved one. They overlapped each other, and oh, it looked so ugly. We had to squeeze through crowds to see the locks. It was covered with little locks, the kind that locked up a bicycle. But I didn’t want to disappoint the family, so I smiled when Zack took pictures of the Arc de Triomphe or Lizzie gasped with awe when the Eiffel Tower suddenly lit up with lights.īut there was an ache I couldn’t push through until one afternoon when we packed a picnic lunch and walked alongside the Seine. ![]() We’d dreamed about it for years, but that was when we were a family of five. I didn’t think I could go to Paris with my husband and two children, Lizzie and Zack. ![]()
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