A klepsydra is an hourglass of sorts, a way of measuring time with water.

In the past year, I’ve landed in a very watery place, those northern European lands below sea level. These are the Lowlands. It’s flat here; cold and wet.

This is where my husband D and I found ourselves, far from family and dear friends and familiar customs, when it happened.

My first child, deeply wanted, died suddenly and unexpectedly, without any real explanation, just a few weeks before she was due. They talked to us about lightening, and luck. Malina. My daughter.

Since being struck, we somehow move through the time after, gravity pulling water through the narrow opening on the underside of an inverted vessel.  Constant and plodding, wondering at the inevitability of day following day.

In my other language, a klepsydra is also another word for a kind of obituary, a death announcement that’s pasted to a place most associated with the one lost.

This is not where we want to be.