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

A couple of years ago, I  landed in a very watery place, those northern European lands below sea level. The Lowlands. It was flat there; 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.

In the early days after being struck, we somehow moved 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. It’s better now, mere days of cold and damp rather than heavy, sodden hour after hour.

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

We couldn’t stay there. We may never be able to return.

But wherever we go from here, three of us now, time still moves. And even if no one but me can still hear the steady drips, I can’t help but keeping marking the minutes since I lost her.