THE HANDS THAT STILL HOLD ME

“The tiny hands reminded me of Lily’s small hand reaching for mine every morning as we walked our regular route….”

My daughter Lily was 25 when she passed away from complications related to pneumonia. About two years later, a medium I went to see told me, “She wants me to ask you about a piece of jewelry. Did you have something made for her?”
“No,” I said, confused.
“She’s showing me her hands,” the medium said. “I’m hearing hands! Holding on.”
My breath caught. I hadn’t thought about the ring in months. Two small gold hands, clasping, engraved I love you forever. I bought it online after Lily passed—something to hold onto when everything felt so far away. But when it arrived, I tucked it in a drawer, unable to wear it. It felt too final.

Lily was the fiery soul and heart of our home. At four months old, when it became clear she wasn’t developing as expected, she was labeled a SWAN: syndrome without a name. Over the years, many doctors and therapists tried to figure her out. We just called her our medical mystery, and together we found our way. Lily was small for her age, with moderate to severe cognitive delays, but she was mighty.

If Lily didn’t like something or someone, you knew it right off. She’d give you a firm “No.” Or “Go.” When she loved something, you felt that just as strongly. Though she didn’t speak much, she could say “I love you” clearly, and when she did, it meant everything. She showed affection in other ways too: pulling us into hugs, meowing like a cat—her version of attention and sweetness—or grabbing her dad’s glasses so she could gently touch his eyelashes. She liked to touch mine too, when we watched Victor—her name for The Young and the Restless. Never a poke—just a gentle touch with her index finger. Her way of connecting.

She loved routine: her day program, evening calls to her grandmas, music playing in the car. “What’s the schedule?” was her favorite phrase—repeated often and with great urgency. Right behind that came “Eat!”—sometimes signed with dramatic flair if we weren’t moving fast enough. That kind of intensity could be exhausting. But at the same time, she brought so much joy into the day. When she was content, she’d sway, meow or curl into your arms with total trust.

She was also a little mischief-maker. If we told her “Shhh, your brother’s doing his homework,” she’d immediately start calling his name louder and louder until he gave in and came out to say hi. She knew exactly what she was doing, and it always made us laugh. Lily loved to laugh.

Being with Lily meant being fully seen, fully claimed and completely wrapped in her world. I bought the little gold ring because it reminded me of that. I thought of it as our symbol: holding on, holding tight. The tiny hands reminded me of Lily’s small hand reaching for mine every morning as we walked our regular route, her walk awkward but determined. And maybe they remind Lily of that too. “She says to wear the ring when you travel,” the medium told me. “She loves seeing the world through your eyes now.”

The world doesn’t always make room for grief. Sometimes when I mention Lily, people get quiet. If I laugh or smile, someone might say, “I’m so glad you’re doing better now.” As if smiling means I’m over losing her. As if joy and grief can’t exist together. But they do. So now when I pack my bags, I slip the ring on my finger. Not to protect myself, but to carry Lily. The ring reminds me that she’s still with me. That I’m still her mother. That we’re still finding our way, together.

—Elizabeth Candy

Lily, age 19, Monterey State Beach, 2016. Her hoodie wasn’t lying—she loved to smile. It’s no coincidence that her favorite song was “Happy.”

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Elizabeth Candy began writing to explore her grief after the death of her eldest child, in 2022; her work has also been published in Motherwell. She resides in California with her husband and their two living children.

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