The first thing I remember losing, was my dog Susie when I was four years old.

She was a jet black lab with a relatively immense personality and destructive nature. I vaguely remember watching her prance victoriously through the yard, the seat of our John Deere lawnmower, hanging in bits and pieces from her mouth.

We got Susie as a puppy, when she was hurled from a moving vehicle into the front yard of our home on Kibbe Road, which was a bit off-the-grid and surrounded by tall trees, so random animals appearing in the yard wasn’t uncommon.
         

When Susie grew from a puppy to a large dog, my older brother and I, Sean, who was six at the time, would ride on her back like a horse (A horse which I desperately wished for on every letter to Santa at Christmas time and every birthday list until I was ten.)

But, eventually my parents couldn’t take her constant howling and barking and ripping every lose item to shreds. So one day she was gone, given to a farmer with a lots of land for her to run and play. Or at least that’s what my mom told her heartbroken four year old daughter standing barefoot in the kitchen.

That is the first thing I remember losing.

But, my most memorable loss, will always be the day I lost Baby.

Baby was a stuffed bunny, but also she was my companion.

I was given Baby as a gift for my first birthday, by my Godparents. I took Baby with me everywhere, I lost her once in a ball pit at Stone Mountain State Park, sending my dad on a crazed frenzy to recover her for me. Which he always did, if I was to ever accidently leave her behind.

But, in the summer of 2005 when I was six years old, my family and I went to southern Florida to spend a week on the water, with the sandy beaches and sunburnt shoulders. Upon walking into the hotel that afternoon, Baby must have slipped from my unzipped blue book bag and disappeared somewhere into the lobby. Realizing this moments after settling into our room, my mom, dad, and I hunted through the lobby, the floor, the walkway outside and my blue book bag half a million times, not to mention all the hopeless phone calls to the Lost and Found center before we came to the conclusion that someone mistook her for a pile of rags. (To be fair, she had undergone many stitching sessions with my mom and was made out of more love than fabric.)

That trip was filled with tears and heartbreak as we packed up after that despairing weekend and headed back home to Georgia, without poor Baby, who, I like to think is still living it up somewhere in Florida.

Possibly one of my more incomprehensible losses, was the time my grandparents gave me a beautiful silver, heart shaped necklace with my name engraved in perfect cursive across the front.

Unfortunately, at a young age (somewhere around six) I was one of those kids who often said to themselves “I wonder what would happen if…” which is exactly the case in this point in time.
      

Growing up on Kibbe Road, I had a large window in the living room that looked out over our front yard. This was one of my favorite places to sit and watch the day go by.

One day, as I was probably enjoying a cup of orange juice, something I had so frequently as a child, I have lost my taste for it (add that to the list of loses) I wondered what would happen if I stuck my shiny new necklace down into a crack in the wooden window pane. So I did, and promptly, left it there, with only the tip of the bottom on the heart poking out. Little did I know, at that time, my parents were in the process of selling my childhood home, which meant painters were coming to paint the house a soft shade of cream. Long story short, they painted over my heart in the window pane and if you go back to my old house on Kibbe Road, you’ll probably still see it there, just the tip of the bottom sticking up from the wood work.

So to continue, growing up, I was always very close to my family who came from the vast lands of the Dakota’s up north.

We would spend most of our summers in Battle Lake, Minnesota, where my grandparents lived. (And Grandma still lives.)  And always make a trip to Mooreton, North Dakota to visit my aunt, uncle and cousins.

It was during one of these trips, that my mom, Aunt Sharon and my grandparents got the devastating news that their brother and son, my uncle Steve, had committed suicide at his home in Colorado. This was unbelievable and an overly tragic time from my mom’s side of the family. I was very young and naïve at the time, probably seven or eight, but I do remember vivid details of watching my parents cry and then try to hide behind sorrowful smiles when around me and my brothers, my younger brother being around 4 around this time.

I saw my mom at this very emotional state, and I will never be able to comprehend how she has always been so strong and courageous.

I’ve always had a longing to return to Colorado, after what happened, I wish to go back and find out what was in those mountains and streams and recover what my uncle loved so much about that place. Maybe one day I’ll find out.

GAINED

Over the course of my life so far, I have been to many places, and I have seen a lot of what the world has to offer. I am extremely grateful for the friends and family that I have and I know even at their worst, I still consider them the best. But if there is one thing I know I have gained, aside from the people who love me and whom I love back, it is the ability to live everyday with the lessons I have learned the day before. My mom has always told me, for years now, to always “stay positive.” And I think that is some of the best advice you can give and gain.