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 and held me in his arms. Together we stood there as the rain dropped on the umbrella and the cold pierced our bare hands. We waited together for the moment to pass, for strength to build, for faith to form again. Soon we left the grave of our friend's son, walked back to the grave of my cousin who lived more than half her life without her son and stood together as parents who one year ago lost our beautiful son and only child.
The difference between my cousin's son and my son, is that her son was married. His wife, I'll call her Sally, never re-married. Through the years Sally stayed close to her mother-in-law and father-in-law for the rest of their lives. She embraced them as parents. She loved them as parents. She needed them as much as they needed her and they all loved each other as parents and child.
I walked up to Sally, who is now just a bit older than me and told her who I was. I told her how I always admired my cousin because she persevered through the death of her only son (Sally's husband.) I shared my memory of him how when I was a little girl he put me on his shoulders and we ran around the back yard. I can still recall how I screamed with delight and the romping ride up in the air. It made me remember him through the years, remember him fondly, remember him with a smile, to say his name, to love him. Then I shared with her that although I always loved and admired my cousin, it meant more than ever to me now for I had lost my son and only child on January 1, 2010. I wanted Sally to know that her being there for his parents was a gift that had significance and depth that she may never fully understand. She gave them the life of a child in their lives. She showed them the love of a child. She walked through the years with them, shared holidays, held their hands and grew old with them. Sally was their daughter.
After this death, we are different, very different. There is a force that pushes you to say and do things that before would have been held silent, let slip past, or simply not shared. Now, after this death, the silence must be broken. The heart must share what the soul feels and the words must flow to show the world that compassion and love exist in a way that can only be experience by sharing the depth of our lives with others.
So I said it...let the silence be broken.
The difference between my cousin's son and my son, is that her son was married. His wife, I'll call her Sally, never re-married. Through the years Sally stayed close to her mother-in-law and father-in-law for the rest of their lives. She embraced them as parents. She loved them as parents. She needed them as much as they needed her and they all loved each other as parents and child.
I walked up to Sally, who is now just a bit older than me and told her who I was. I told her how I always admired my cousin because she persevered through the death of her only son (Sally's husband.) I shared my memory of him how when I was a little girl he put me on his shoulders and we ran around the back yard. I can still recall how I screamed with delight and the romping ride up in the air. It made me remember him through the years, remember him fondly, remember him with a smile, to say his name, to love him. Then I shared with her that although I always loved and admired my cousin, it meant more than ever to me now for I had lost my son and only child on January 1, 2010. I wanted Sally to know that her being there for his parents was a gift that had significance and depth that she may never fully understand. She gave them the life of a child in their lives. She showed them the love of a child. She walked through the years with them, shared holidays, held their hands and grew old with them. Sally was their daughter.
After this death, we are different, very different. There is a force that pushes you to say and do things that before would have been held silent, let slip past, or simply not shared. Now, after this death, the silence must be broken. The heart must share what the soul feels and the words must flow to show the world that compassion and love exist in a way that can only be experience by sharing the depth of our lives with others.
So I said it...let the silence be broken.
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