a perfect day for a funeral

It was a Sunday. We stood there, on the hill, in the mud. The wind was blowing harder than I have ever had the privilege of feeling. The children cried because the wind was in their face, the trees rocked incredibly making one think they were going to fall over, and we stood.

We stood in dresses and pretty shirts, in suits and ties.

We stood, ten adults, six children, eight males, eight females, two great-grandparents, four grandparents, ten parents, eight aunts, eight uncles, eight nephews, eight nieces, seven brothers, eight sisters, and sixteen cousins. We stood and mourned the loss of our littlest one: a son, a grandson, a great-grandson, a nephew, a cousin, a brother.

He was born early Monday morning, November 21, 2005. He was only at 14 weeks gestation. To some, he is a fetus, but to us, he was William. His heart once beat, he was most certainly a boy, he had a nose, mouth, fingers, toes, eyes that could blink, the ability to move, and so much more. He was a child we never got to know, a friend my son will never play with.

His father and grandfather led the services and they were just beautiful. He talked of the child and we sang a hymn I did not know, his oldest daughter ran to him and hugged his leg. The grandfather shared some words and the father shared a poem. Then the tiny little body was laid to rest in a tiny little hole in a tiny little 4″x2″x2″ treasure chest box.

My hair whipped in the wind, hitting me in the face so that I could not see. I didn’t mind. It was an easy way to hide the tears.