When I was three, I realized my little brother wasn’t around one day. I knew he was sick a lot, and during the several times he went to the hospital, I would stay with my aunt. I don’t think I knew what death was and I do remember crying once because I missed him…my mother most likely told me he was with Jesus. From a three-year old’s understanding, I remember my mother being sad, as well as my father. Later, after I grew up, I understood the sorrow suffered by both my parents was quite great. I still think of him and wonder how things would have been if he had lived.
When I visit cemeteries, I often find myself being very humble and sympathetic when documenting children’s graves. Quite frankly, I’m drawn to graves of those that have died in their early years. I suppose I understand in my own way, the pain and grief at the loss of a child, or a younger loved one. Having one’s life end short, and before life barely began. Some suffered and some passed peacefully. This is just one of the many things cemetery visits mean to me.
It’s been years and though their spirit is within me, I really need to visit my family and ancestors at Decatur Cemetery sometime soon.
Peace to us all.