Those Who Mourn

by Jessika Caruso

I mourn all the conversations I will never have. I will never get to tell your birth stories, because you were born bloody into my hands. I will never get to gush over your first coos, your first smiles, or your first steps. I will never complain about night feeds, the challenges of bottle feeding or feeding at the breast. I can never tell anyone your first words.

Though you did not have any audible first words, perhaps you spoke by simply existing. Your presence was a song of life and hope. Your presence was an answered prayer, a response from God to a longing heart. I heard these words with my soul.

In the Field, Grigory Grigorievich Myasoedov

I can never tell stories of your distinct personalities. Your funny antics, your daily activities. We’ll never know your favorite colors, your favorite books, or your favorite foods. We’ll never know if you rejoice at the sound of garbage trucks, like your brother does. I can never tell these stories to the parents at the playground.

People will assume your brother is an only child. They will look at him and see a little boy whose parents give him everything. They will call him spoiled. But he has known loss, too. One day he will mourn you – the siblings he could have played with. He will know that he was there when we received the news of your lives and of your deaths. He will know that you are still a part of our family.

I can never tell anyone about your brother’s reaction to the sight of you. The first time we brought you home: what did he do? The world will never know, because he never saw you. He never welcomed you into his arms. He never picked fights with you or protected you from bullies.

But he will see reminders of you. He will see your names on my bracelets. He sees your names on precious art made by dear friends in your memory. He sees the Certificates of Life hanging on the wall. When I ask him where you are, he points upwards to Heaven. He has welcomed you into his heart in a way he will gradually come to understand.

But can I tell the parents on the park bench about these things? No; I am too afraid I’ll cry in the telling. Too afraid of making people uncomfortable.

It’s good to care about others’ feelings, to respect their boundaries. But what about the other grieving parents? Who will care about their feelings? Who will remember that they exist, too? Whether or not they talk about their lost children, the grief is still there, heavy as a thick fog. I can see them through that fog, whether they are good at hiding behind it or not.

And perhaps one day, your brother will learn to recognize these grieving souls. He will be attuned to the sights and sounds of grief. Perhaps his siblings will help him perceive pain and show compassion.

I can never pray for your safety. I can never pray for your first day of school. Your first Sacraments: Baptisms, Penances, Holy Communions, or Confirmations. I can never pray that you make it home safely after a night out with friends. I can never pray for your vocations – to marriage, priesthood, or consecrated life.

But I rejoice, because I no longer need to pray for you. You have arrived at your Eternal Rest, no longer in need of temporal signs. You have outrun us all and received the crown of life. God’s mercy has called you to Himself. You are loved by Our Lady in her heavenly nursery. At Mary’s side, you can whisper in her ear our prayers to her Son.

I mourn the conversations of your time on earth, but the conversations shall continue after death. Even if we cannot hear your voices, your names speak powerful words, my dear Valor and Trinity.

Valor. “The valiant one whose steps are guided by the Lord, who will delight in his way, may stumble, but he will never fall, for the Lord holds his hand.” (Psalm 37:23-24)

Trinity. “The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit be with all of you.” (2 Corinthians 13:13)

photo by Barbara Marcella

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photo by Barbara Marcella