There’s something I’ve been meaning to do for a whole year now.

Every time I pass a tiny memorial site near Northlake Condominiums on S.C. 76, I slow down and look at it.

It is always freshly updated, a new stuffed animal or a different set of flowers. Sometimes the ribbons change colors.

The last time I drove by, the ribbon was pink and the flowers matched.

It was at this spot where 3-year-old Michele Gonzales was killed in a horrific traffic accident last May, just days before Mother’s Day.

I was there.

The company truck I was driving that day was going too slowly, as usual, and people were passing me.

So I moved it over to the right lane. Moments later, I saw a car dash across the highway toward Northlake and the back door come open. I looked down onto the left lane and Michele was lying there.

What I saw next will never leave my mind.

For weeks after the precious toddler fell from that car and was struck by a vehicle, the scene played over in my mind every time I closed my eyes.

I couldn’t even pray at church because I couldn’t bear to close my eyes for that long.

The nightmares wouldn’t stop, either. I kept seeing her beautiful little face looking up at me from the road and her tears as she called out for help.

There was nothing I could do.

There was nothing anyone could do.

I don’t believe I will ever hear anything as heartbreaking as her mother’s screams that day and her wails at her baby’s funeral.

I still don’t know who the stranger was that comforted me that day, but I want to say “thank you” to her. With time, I have been able to close my eyes again.

My therapist taught me some exercises to do when the scene won’t stop replaying.

I don’t cringe as much when I see children playing near a car and I don’t stare as often when I see a little girl who resembles Michele.

I managed to give statements to police and others involved in the investigation of the accident without having breakdowns.

But there is one thing I haven’t been able to do.

I need to get to the memorial. Something is pulling me there.

Maybe I need to take something, a teddy bear or a pretty flower.

Perhaps I need to talk to her, to tell her how sorry I am that I couldn’t save her.

Or maybe I could leave a note for her mother, whose grief must still be so overwhelming, to let her know I pray for her all the time (especially on days like today, Mother’s Day).

Until then, I want to tell everyone who saw the traumatic scene, who was involved in the accident or who misses Michele that time does heal and pain does fade.

And even from Heaven, she can feel our love.