Historical setting: 602 C.E. A cottage in the Vosges
Commoners don’t record their begottens. No one but God and the memories of old grandmothers keep this lineage. But with my oddity, having an ever and ever perspective I’ve come to know that the human record of history is only as good as the keeping of names. Precious relics are really only old stuff with the name remembered.
Yesterday a terrible tragedy visited our farm. Yesterday there was nothing to say that wasn’t spoken through tears.
Today, Ana and I are trying to sort through it and now we are finding blame. Blame is everywhere. Forgiveness is yet fantasy far from today’s grief.
Yesterday, Charlie came rushing up the hill from the creek shouting for help because Simon was in the deep water of the creek. Ana and I rushed down. I pulled what was once little Simon from the water. It was only the pale wet form of a child who once lived. If only I’d taught him to swim. And Ana was sobbing too.
She found the little handmade papyrus book by the rock. [footnote] She held it close to her, as though it was a newborn — but it was not. She blames herself for encouraging him to take quiet time alone with this book she made for him. “If only we had insisted he never go off alone…”
I dug a deep grave in the place where only flowers may grow – these daisies aren’t food or healing for physical sustenance. This is only for flowers. They bloom fresh in late spring and bob in the summer winds, then, the gardener, who, a few days ago was Simon doing the chore, pops the withered heads off the daisies to give them strength for fall blooming. When Simon and Samuel were born, a few October daisies bloomed wild here, where we buried the tiny Samuel.
We never speak of Simon’s twin, Samuel. He was born too frail for life and died on his birthday. It happens. That’s what Ana tells other mothers when she’s called to help in dangerous births. But to happen to her own infant was devastating. She blames herself. Maybe it was guilt, along with grief that kept her hiding this sorrow. Or maybe she meant to protect the children from hurt. But she wanted the children never to know.
Don’t children know grief? And when they see a parent grieve, they surely know a parent’s love is deep and children are valued.
(Continues Tuesday, August 1)
[footnote] In this story, Simon’s little journal is the Novella “How Still Waters Run” by the author of this blog. As an e-book, it is a free download to readers posted on the homepage of this blog. https://lazarus-ink.blog/
Lazarus Ink 