For AC

Yet another mother. Another friend of a friend. Another virtual stranger, with cyber strings to my heart. Another mother. Burying her child. Tomorrow. Slipping the body of her only flesh into a cold, dark grave. Sitting alone and lonely, surrounded by mourning throngs of loved ones who haven't a clue. None of us do. How could we?

How could we know how to say goodbye? Forever. So soon. He was only 19 months, little Finn was. Not quite a baby anymore. Walking. Playing. Showing a love for animals, and for Mama and Daddy. Yet still too young to clearly mutter "I'm a big boy." Too young for a Big Wheel or his first day on the slopes. Too young for this. Too young for goodbye.

"I'm sorry," they'll say. "I'm sorry for your loss." But a mother without a child hasn't just lost -- she is lost. She's lost within her very being. Trapped within death. Defined by it. Just as the birth of a child shifts the soul of a mother, the death of a child decays the mother's soul. We are nothing without children. We are empty, bottomless graves.

An empty grave. Tomorrow. As Erin tucks Finn into his final sleep, kisses his forehead, and holds his hand, I pray she feels his spirit soar into heaven. He will not dwell in that cold place, but warm our memories of him. He'll shine in cherished photos and linger in the soft smell of his favorite blankie. He will beat within her heart every day of her life. And deep, deep in her soul, may she find her motherhood. May she find it and hold it and cherish it, just as she did Finn.

Godspeed, little man. Sweet dreams, little man.