We visited the cemetery today, as is our custom, since November is the month of the Holy Souls, and this week is the Octave, and you get an indulgence for going there to pray for the dead. I don’t think I would much want to go—I’m pretty lethargic these days; can’t seem to clean the house or do much, but my husband thinks of these things, fortunately, and he gets the kids all dressed up and buckled, and he drives. All I had to do was bundle up and grab the baby.

I had a spring in my step though, once we were there, it was all so fresh and healthy. I led the rosary over the grave of my unborn baby, Doloran, and the memory of the others, too: Noah Jonah and Andrew.

We prayed for the other children, too, all unborn or under the age of one, who were laid there especially in this part of the cemetery, near the statue of St. Anne.

It was a gorgeous November day. Crisp and sunny. Everything green and rich from so many days of rain leading up to this one. The children ran and played quietly, but exuberantly, among the grave markers. They fought hard against the temptation to pick up and play with the various toys and gifts and things left piled up so lovingly on top of those humble little graves. Even Virgil, not yet three, knew better than to pick these toys up—though he touched them lightly with his fingers before running along with his sisters.

My eyes jumped from the sight of a small forlorn little stuffed animal, rain soaked from the passed week in the open air, lying on its side, up to the milky white statue of St Anne instructing the Child Mary, to a humble cross woven of wilted yellow flowers laid across the grass. Our place was unmarked even by flowers, but we marked it with our prayers.

I cried a little but I wasn’t very sad. Only grateful for the day, and my children—all these living children running and laughing over and among the graves of others. I hoped the souls of these silent children laid here were made even more joyful by the presence of these happy visitors; I hoped they were even happier than we here could imagine, and that they didn’t envy the living, but only condescended to share in their limited, earthbound joy. 

I prayed that the grief, evidenced by the childish gifts left behind: a statue of Tigger and Pooh; an orange Halloween bucket with candy inside it—would be eased for the mothers and fathers who had lately been here. I hoped that they had received other children, that their grief would be limited, even as joy is so limited on this earth. I hoped their joy would soon outweigh their loss. 

That little wilted, rain soaked stuffy, lying awkwardly on its side, was smiling; his little eye was looking up at me. For an instant I saw the infant it was intended for lying there in the same position, immovable, smiling up reassuringly at me.

I felt sad for others, but not so much for myself. This visit was different than it had been the other times, in the past two years or so since I planted my own sorrow here. It’s blooming into gratitude now.