Bereaved Mother's Day

I live in the world of child loss.

It's a taboo subject, one we're afraid to talk about.  It's almost like if we don't give it voice, it can't exist.

But it does.  It's real, and the silence only serves to deepen the pain.

I've now been to more funerals for children than I have for adults.  It feels wrong, it hurts, and I admit, it's scary.

I love these parents, these souls who've given back their most cherished hopes and dreams.  I watch them, knowing that someday I'll be part of that awful club that no one ever wants to join, and knowing that when I do, they'll be there, waiting to hold me, mourn with me, and tell me that yes, somehow, inconceivably, life does go on.

Chances are good, better than good, that you know someone, a mother, who no longer can reach for her child.  Someone who won't get a phone call, email, or hug from their child next week on Mother's Day.

In the past week alone, two friends have joined this sorority.  One knew ahead of time, like I do, that her time would come.  The other did not.  Both grieve, and I ache that I can do nothing to help.  And even when you know it will happen, no matter how much time you had, it's never, never enough.

Reach out to her, say the name.  Let her know you haven't forgotten.  One of my biggest fears is that after Aaron passes on, his memory will, too.  He won't have children and grandchildren to tell stories about him.  He won't have a wife who will miss him.

When you lose a child, you lose a future.  So take a risk.  Yeah, she'll probably cry.  But you're not reminding her that her child died.  She knows that, she knows that in ever single fiber of her being.

You're reminding her that her child lived, and you remember.

There is no footprint too small to leave an imprint on this world.

Author Unknown