I was on vacation yesterday and I went to the cemetery to visit my grandson. A couple of plots over a young woman was sitting on a blanket beside a fairly recent grave. She was crying gently.
I cleaned up some twigs and leaves around my grandson’s place and had a short one-sided conversation with him and said a little prayer.
As I turned to leave I felt the need to acknowledge the woman’s grief. It was clear the grave was someone close, a husband, a child. I did not want to intrude but I was compelled. “Ma’am,” I said, “I am sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. I see yours was only one day old. My little girl only lived three days.” My heart broke.
I wanted to tell her the pain would never go away but in time scar tissue would form on her broken heart. It wasn’t my place, besides I never lost a child, how can I know? Instead I told her “He was my grandson.Again, I’m really sorry.” I left her to her to spend her private time with her baby.
As I climbed in the car I wish I had asked her little girl’s name. Too often we overlook infant death as if they weren’t real persons. I should have acknowledged the baby. Told her mom she chose a beautiful name.
The next time I go visit Sawyer, I will stop by the new grave and say hello to the baby girl lost too soon and call her by name.
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