I love children, period. It does not matter to me what color they are or gender. To me, a child is a child. I could take a stranger's child and raise them up as mine, loving and caring for them completely.
I've always wanted many children, even secretly hoping for a set of twins. Unfortunately, things didn't quite work out that way. I did have four children, but have only two to show for it.
The other day as I was looking through some old papers, I came across the grave markings of my son's graves. It's been a very, very long time since I've been to their graves.
In the earlier years after their deaths, I visited regularly usually with family members. I would watch them literally bawl their eyes out in grief and yet, no tears came from me. I didn't feel anything sitting at their graves. For a long time, I felt inept as a mother because of it. How could I not cry at their graves?
Yet, I would arrive home afterwards and think about them. I would remember their scent and the tears would come. I could remember their last day as if it happened yesterday. So why couldn't I cry at their graves?
It took many years for me to realize that I felt their presence around me everywhere I went, especially at home. That grave, that cemetery had nothing to do with them except the fact they were buried there. They lived their lives here with me, no matter how short. Their memory wasn't in that cemetery. Their memory lives inside of me.
Ever since I found that slip of paper, I've been wanting to go visit that gravesite. I'm not sure of the why. All I know is that suddenly I needed to go. Would I be able to even find them after all this time? Most importantly, what would I feel?
Well, there's only one way to find out.
Have a Blessed day everyone.
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