As we entered our small house, the energy was palpable – our home was quietly buzzing with fullness and love. I hung up my jacket as my daughters flew past, garbed in princess gowns and happily playing with little friends they hadn’t seen in almost a year. I quietly inventoried the bustling home, from the team of diligent women futzing in the kitchen, to the group of men unloading a brand new deep freeze in the garage. As I turned the corner toward the den, I saw Evan’s mom and dad plopped on the couch, his sister was sitting across from them rocking Graham.
Evan and I had just returned from the funeral home where we made arrangements for Graham’s services. My son was dead now, which ment the baby my sister-in-law was cuddling, couldn’t possibly be Graham. Even so, as I looked over at the two of them – I really, truly believed the baby she was holding was my son.
I actually thought Graham was just a few feet away from me – snuggled, asleep in the arms of his aunt. For a fleeting bit of time, I lived within a dream. I wasn’t hoping it was true, it wasn’t an ‘if-only’ moment. It was that – for a transient instant – I thought Graham was still with me. Graham alive, was still so much more real than Graham dead.
As I sucked for air, the truth of my mistake engulfed me like an avalanche. Unedited agony spewed from deep within as I scrambled toward this precious infant. “I thought you were my baby!” I bellowed. “Oh! dear, sweet boy, I thought you were mine!” My guttural moaning bubbled out of me like raw sewage from a clogged drain. I startled the small child awake as I crumpled to the floor in front of him, my trembling hands spasming over his face and body in fragmented, unproductive movements. “I thought you were my son!” I wailed. My gulping sobs quickly transitioned to short, fast puffs – much like the breaths of a laboring mother – enduring the unbearable by preparing for worse.
Our heavy house quieted, as the people dearest to me drew close – tenderly they stood united, vigilant but quiet. In that moment, there was nothing left for me to do but hemorrhage and writhe. I was after all, torn open – my very heart ripped away from me.
There was nowhere I could go, there was nothing I could do. No one could lighten the suffering.
It was too soon for healing. Too soon for comfort. Hope couldn’t yet touch this seething injury.
So my community of warriors remained silent, and honorably bore witness to the mutilated, ugly mother before them, until the moment somehow passed and they returned to making sandwiches and cleaning toilets.
Graham 