Last night, I attended our local support group Christmas program for lost babies. It's a beautiful service: songs, poems, and a candle lit for the name of each baby.
While we were waiting for the program to begin, my mother was telling me about her grandmother (my great-grandmother). My mother never knew her: she died when my grandfather was 16. But when my grandfather was born, his sister, who was 3 years old at the time, was sick in the other room with dyphtheria (a word so unused that the blogger spell check does not have it in the lexicon. But I checked the spelling. Twice).
The last word that his 3 year-old sister said was "baby" when she heard my grandfather's first cry.
My grandfather lost three siblings in all. My great-grandmother had three children who died.
During the program, I cried for Nathaniel. I cried for my great-grandmother, and wondered how in the world she made it through. I cried for my grandfather, too.
It haunts me. How common this experience would have been a few short generations ago. Your grandfather's sister, I seem to hear that little word 'baby' echoing down all that time into my living room right here. How strange. Poor child. Poor little girl. And her poor mother and her brother. This world can be a very, very sad place at times.
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