She was in her late 60s with 12 grown children, including five sons who had survived combat in World War II and more than 30 grandchildren.

Yet tears came to her eyes when she talked about Walter, her firstborn who had died 12 hours after he was born.

She remembered his blue eyes, his blond hair and a tiny birthmark on his neck. The child she lost had a large space in her heart — even 50 years and many births later.

She was my grandmother Carrie McBride. From her I learned that loved ones we have lost always linger in our memories, stirring emotions to mourn again what is beyond our grasp.