I’ve always thought cemeteries were so peaceful.
In high school and college I would sometimes run through them, sit in them, walk through them. I somehow felt small and grounded there–in a good way. A reminder that life is just a wisp, a vapor.
Clive is buried in a cemetery just a half mile from our house. An old one, full of history and trees.
I like going there.
I know he’s not there, but it’s a place to remember him. It feels sacred. There’s a small area for babies. These tiny lots for tiny graves with small flat markers remembering all-too-short lives.
Many of the markers are from the 1950s, 60s, 70s, 80s… There are a few from the 50s that still have flowers place on them. Unfaded, obviously from this year.
Babies that have been gone for 60-something years that are still missed.
Of course, that shouldn’t surprise me. As long as their parents live, all those babies are remembered and missed. Their mommies and daddies still carry those scars and that pain.
Many of the grave markers are covered with dead grass clippings. I brush them off, reading their names and giving their lives remembrance. I read names of twins. Of siblings, lost 18 months apart.
Of a family that had to mourn 3 children in 5 years. I wish I could find these parents and hug them.
I mourn for these families, these babies. For us. For Clive, who although is now healed, never truly knew us in the way a parent wants to be known. I remind myself that he was always loved, and is still loved. He experienced our love his whole life, and in some way that I can’t understand, I believe he still experiences it. So very loved.
My body feels so sick and my soul aches thinking of the babies that don’t experience love. Never doing anything to deserve it, they are robbed of that parent-love. Babies with heartbeats, bodies, souls and brains are killed. With fingers and fingerprints and tastebuds.
How is this okay?
I’ve never thought it was okay, but I honestly find it even more inconceivable now. I’ve lost two babies. I never even saw the heartbeat of one, and I listened to and watched the heartbeat of the other–almost nonstop for 2 months. I deeply grieve the loss of these two children of mine. My soul cries out in anguish. To choose to end your child’s life is… I can’t even find the words. They don’t seem strong enough.
As a grieving mama, I know I can pretty much say whatever the heck I want. And for some reason people will read this, and possibly people will listen to me. And here I am saying this: every child deserves to be fought for, to be loved, to live, and to be remembered. I fought and I FOUGHT HARD. I loved fiercely. And I remember well.
Many of the people I know already believe this to be true. Some of you might not. I’m not here to argue or to talk specific scenarios or situations.
There is truth, and the truth is that all children deserve life and parent-love. That parent-love might be adopted parents or from grandparents or stepparents. Or it might be from their love-filled mommies and daddies.
Clive Samuel is loved and loved well. He was surrounded by love for his whole life, from the moment he was known. He was prayed for before he was known. His body was broken, but he was perfect. He will always be spoken of, remembered, and cherished. In celebrating and remembering Clive’s life, I now promise to remember those babies and celebrate all those brave mamas out there that are loving and giving life to their children despite hardships and fears and what people say they should do.