Love Carved in Stone

Since I did no bodily harm to anyone or to any ham, I woke up this morning feeling rather pleased with myself. It was time for a treat. I decided to make the trek out of the sticks and into the city. Where I promptly hit a Starbucks and toasted my Bug. Driving alone, in a car, for an hour is a distinctly different experience now. Where before, I would rock the music and watch the Shalebug rock out to the tunes, head bobbing, eyes rolling, drool a-dripping; now there is no one in the back seat. Just me. I can crank the volume and not feel guilty about condemning my child to a life of hearing aids amongst all his other disabilities. It is a tad lonely, but I am getting through it.

After finishing my errands, I came home. And ripped into the pack of pictures I had picked up earlier in the day. (Rather like opening a Christmas present, you never know what is inside the packing.) Out floated the typical blurry shots of Fric and Frac, my hubby, and of course, a variety of nieces and nephews. And then my heart bottomed out. No, there were no last, forgotten pics of the Bug. Instead, there was, in techni-color, his head stone. I had forgotten I had taken pictures of his grave marker. Which, of course brings back a flood of memories and all the pain that I try so valiantly; so desperately, to shove back into it's dark corner on a daily basis.

A person expects to pick a grave marker sometime in their life. An aunt, an uncle, perhaps a parent. But when I was pregnant with Bug, when I (finally) brought him home from the hospital and loved him all those years, not once did I expect to have to do such a repugnant chore. I brought him into this world, and I never thought I would see him out.

I spent years scribbling my words on what ever I could find. In school, on the job, at home. Jotting my thoughts and feelings are as second nature to me as breathing and combing my hair. (A girl does have her priorities.) But there are no words that can express a love so deeply felt as that felt for your child. Inscribing only his name wasn't enough. Yet a poem was too much. Here I thought paring his life into a five minute speech was hard. Try finding the right words for a two foot slab of granite.

In the end, it all boiled down to a mother's love. His name and dates are inscribed on the front, as well as the words said to him every night for four years, nine months and 17 days, before going to bed: God Speed Angel boy. And on the back, just from me, is inscribed : Mommy's Little Man. Because he was, and always will be.