My 15-year-old daughter died. I recently found her box – and what was inside shocked me.

When my daughter Ana was 11, she was diagnosed with a rare cancer called inflammatory myofibroblastic tumor (IMT). Five years later, on March 22, 2017, Ana died from her disease.

In those first months after Ana’s death, sadness manifested itself in the form of chest pain and an inability to do more than sit in the yard and watch the birds at the feeders. I stopped working for about six months, subcontracting my freelance marketing projects while I navigated life in a daze.

With each passing year, my grief changes and evolves. It never goes away. It’s just… different. For me, surviving grief requires adaptation. It took me a long time, but I finally came to terms with the fact that I don’t hold on to every memory, ritual, and symbol that reminds me of Ana.

As we approach the seventh anniversary of the loss of Ana, I do not need to and do not want to tell the story of her death over and over again. I want to remember her life and the special things that made Ana, well… Ana. There is one memory in particular that is still sharp and clear in my mind – Ana’s imaginary world. She called it Arkomo.

Ana loved small things. She collected them like treasures: Tiny stuffed animals. Shells that fit in the palm of your hand. The world’s smallest plastic frog.

When she was a toddler, Ana would gather her toy collection into a huge pile in the middle of the living room and throw a huge tantrum when I tried to clean it up. She sat and played next to the pile until she inevitably got tired. Then she would curl up on her stuffed toys and take a nap. She was like a little dragon fiercely guarding its gold.

Ana eventually moved away from those toy piles and into more structured worlds. She built cities out of wooden blocks, Legos, or cardboard. She put her smallest toys in them. She played with them for hours, drawing her little sister, Emily, into those magical places. Ana was always the boss. Her animals always played the leading roles in every adventure.

For a very short time, Ana’s worlds dominated my home. They appeared on the dining room table and the floor of my study. They appeared in Ana and Emily’s bedroom. They appeared on my coffee table, taking over until I told the girls to pack it up and put it away. These initial worlds would form the foundation of what would become Arkomo—Ana’s most beloved world.

***

Ana built Arkomo out of clay, Lego, bits of Playmobil, and more than a few Polly Pocket dolls—the kind that were about an inch tall. It was a world that gradually unfolded on Ana’s dresser, complete with trees, houses, and roads made of red and brown vinyl bricks (purchased from a local model train store).

She made a sign that said “Welcome to Arkomo” – a name she came up with – and populated the small world with ridiculously small toys called Squinkies. They were rubber people and animals about half an inch tall.

Arkomo’s foundations were shaky. They were made of wooden blocks secured with lumps of clay with several fired polymer components. The whole thing was shaky and uncertain.

Every time I put Ana’s clothes away, half a dozen Arkomoians fell off the dresser like vinyl raindrops. I always carefully put them back, trying to get them back to where they were when they fell. I found Squinkies on Ana’s floor for years after that dresser – and Ana – was long gone.

Arkomo took up valuable real estate in Ana’s cluttered bedroom. I once complained about this to a friend who, with a raised eyebrow, advised me to clean up while Ana was at school. There was no way I was doing this. Ana spent hours building and expanding Arkomo. Destroying him would break her heart.

Like parents who don’t want to raise little sociopaths, I worried. I thought I might be spoiling Ana, that she wouldn’t learn to clean up her mess if I didn’t punish her for her toys. I worried that Ana might be getting too old for imaginary worlds.

Ana finally reclaimed the space on her dresser. She turned 10, then 11, and wanted a stereo and speakers. She became fascinated with My Little Pony and Funko Pop vinyl toys. She began collecting gemstones, incense, and candles. She needed a place to display these things. She took down Arkomo, pouring the contents of the little world into a box for easy removal.

***

When Ana was diagnosed with cancer, Arkomo rarely showed up. When she pulled out the box, it was to find a plastic tree or a small house for a school project. About a month ago, when I was cleaning out the den, I found the box. I knew what was inside. I opened it anyway.

Arkomo was still there: plastic animals, vinyl roads, Playmobil trees. The pieces of clay that held it all together are now crumbled and dry.

I don’t remember the last time Ana played with this. It was probably a decade ago, at least, or maybe even longer. I have learned after seven years of mourning that the last moments are not something that is always expected.

Sometimes they are quiet and subversive. For every last day of school, there are a dozen less wonderful ones lasts: the last time she watched Spongebob, the last time she spent the night at someone’s house, and the last time she folded an origami crane. I can’t remember the last time Ana played with Arkomo.

I can’t remember the last time before this year that I opened a box of things Ana loved so much. I can’t remember the last time I sat on the floor and played next to a child whose face I hadn’t seen in so many damn years.

I would like to take a photo of Arkomo when it was still on Ana’s dresser. I wish I had paid more attention to when she brought her world to life. I would like to write it all down.

This is what I would tell you if you asked me for parenting advice – My God. Write it down. Write it all down.

On March 22, Ana will have been gone for seven years. That’s the magic number – seven. A 7-year-old child can invent entire worlds. If you break a mirror, you will have seven years of bad luck. The rainbow has seven colors. Seven chakras. Seven notes.

Seven years is almost exactly half Ana’s lifespan. She died at the age of 15, just seven weeks before her 16th birthday. I don’t know what any of this means, or if it means anything at all. Time is a construct, especially when your child dies before you. These expectations we have for ourselves and our children are senseless.

As our children grow up (and even if they don’t), the details of their childhood—the children only we could see—fade. The loss is usually softened by the promise of life and the future. Growing up is always traumatic. As we age, we lose some special magic. But not growing up—that’s even more traumatic.

The dusty, broken remains of Ana’s imaginary world reminded me that the child she had been—the child only I truly knew—was gone. The woman she was meant to become was gone, too. For Ana, there were no firsts or lasts.

On the seventh anniversary of her death, I wanted to share something about Ana that only a few of us remember. I wanted to invite you to Arkomo, a place where the smallest souvenirs and the imagination of a girl who she misses very much rule. Ana was here. She was amazing. She invented whole worlds. Now you know something private and wonderful about her. Take it with you. Create your own worlds. Remember Ana when you see the tiny treasures.

Jacqueline Dooley is a freelance writer and essayist based in New York City’s Mid-Hudson Valley. Her essays on grief and parenting have appeared in The Washington Post, HuffPost, Modern Loss, Al Jazeera, Pulse, Longreads, and elsewhere. Much of her work can be found on Medium, where she regularly writes about grief, parenting, and more. She can be reached through her website, https://www.jacquelinedooley.com/contact-me.

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