Today I went to a funeral service for a cousin. It was the first service I've been to since my son's service. My son died on January 1, 2010. My cousin died on January 1, 2011. My son was 20. My cousin was just shy of 93. She had one child, a son. Her son died when he was in his twenties. As I sat at the graveside in the cold and rain I was flooded with emotions that I could not contain so I got up and walked away from her grave. I walked back toward another part of the cemetery unknown to me, somewhere away from the people. I just needed to breathe, to cry, to hurt, to allow the agony of death to rip through me yet again. When I stopped walking and regained my composure I looked up and read the name on the headstone in front of me adorned with a photo of a young, handsome boy. There before me was the name and face of our friend's son. Their only child. I stood there and felt the pain of his parents. I felt my pain. I felt my cousin's pain. My husband appeared a
A journey with grief & sorrow, struggle & survival and life after the death of our only child.