I've only been to one funeral in my life, and I think that's enough.
The morning of my son's funeral, the rain had stopped and the sun had begun to peek through the clouds. How unfair. The weather seemed to remind me that the world doesn't care about my son, about me, about anything. Life goes on. The world didn't stop like it should have; the sun still rose every morning after Jude's death; people continued their lives when mine was stuck in a haze of pain.
I just remember thinking that the birds needed to hide, the sun needed to be clouded over and masked mirroring in my feelings with a darkened sky. But there it was, shining brightly like the hopes that we had to bury along with my son that morning. The sun and Jude's tiny white casket is what I remember the most. Nothing that small should have to symbolize such heaviness. Small things are meant to be cute and cherished, not covered in dirt and buried. Yet, there it was, atop a plastic fold away table sitting silently next to the podium for the pastor.
The service, like Jude's life, was brief but etched forever in my heart. Only immediate family was invited, yet I felt alone. The entire world could have been circling me in a protective ring, and I would have still felt solitary. There wasn't much to say about my son except that he was with our Father and made perfect in heaven despite his unfortunate condition on earth.
"Life is not measured by the length of time on earth, but the impact one makes while on earth"
What a huge impact my son had in his 47 hours and fifteen minutes here on earth. He left such an imprint in the lives of people who never got to meet him, working himself in the hearts of many.
Then, I remember the white flowers surrounding the gaping hole in the ground waiting to engulf my son's now lifeless body. His shell. At many moments in my grief I would feel nothing. Numb to the touch of the world, and numb even to the pain. That was how I felt the moment when those who I loved went up to Jude's little casket and said their final goodbyes. But it wasn't until I saw my parent's broken faces, the tears streaming down my dad's face knowing that he never got to nor would he ever hold my son, that the numbness evaporated to an intense gripping pain in my chest.
Wes and I both stayed well after everyone left and watched the lowering of my son's casket to the ground. A huge bulldozer filled with dirt waited in the sidelines for the cue from the funeral director who made no move to rush us. It wasn't until the casket was fully lowered that the enormity of what was happening hit me. I will never hold my son again, I will never change his diaper, I will never get to feed him from these engorged breasts which betrayed me with milk, I will never be whole.
At that moment it didn't seem right to have the dirt cover my son like discarded trash. The ground was so cold. There was no blanket for him there to cover his tiny body. I collapsed next to the edge of his gave and at that moment wanted my broken heart to finally do what it should: stop beating. I would be buried with Jude. My Jude. My son.
It was my husband's hand firmly placed on my shoulder that stopped what I only thought was right. His hand began to warm my chilled body and pull me back from the darkest moment of my life.
He gave a silent nod to the funeral director and slowly the bulldozer full of dirt began to cover my son. It took such little time to fill that tiny but gaping hole. The finality of it didn't hit me until the perfectly cut out square of grass was placed back on top of the dirt and patted with a flat metal device.
This was my first funeral, and I know it will not be my last. Though I pray every day that it will be the last time I will have to bury a piece of myself and have to walk weakly away.
The morning of my son's funeral, the rain had stopped and the sun had begun to peek through the clouds. How unfair. The weather seemed to remind me that the world doesn't care about my son, about me, about anything. Life goes on. The world didn't stop like it should have; the sun still rose every morning after Jude's death; people continued their lives when mine was stuck in a haze of pain.
I just remember thinking that the birds needed to hide, the sun needed to be clouded over and masked mirroring in my feelings with a darkened sky. But there it was, shining brightly like the hopes that we had to bury along with my son that morning. The sun and Jude's tiny white casket is what I remember the most. Nothing that small should have to symbolize such heaviness. Small things are meant to be cute and cherished, not covered in dirt and buried. Yet, there it was, atop a plastic fold away table sitting silently next to the podium for the pastor.
The service, like Jude's life, was brief but etched forever in my heart. Only immediate family was invited, yet I felt alone. The entire world could have been circling me in a protective ring, and I would have still felt solitary. There wasn't much to say about my son except that he was with our Father and made perfect in heaven despite his unfortunate condition on earth.
"Life is not measured by the length of time on earth, but the impact one makes while on earth"
What a huge impact my son had in his 47 hours and fifteen minutes here on earth. He left such an imprint in the lives of people who never got to meet him, working himself in the hearts of many.
Then, I remember the white flowers surrounding the gaping hole in the ground waiting to engulf my son's now lifeless body. His shell. At many moments in my grief I would feel nothing. Numb to the touch of the world, and numb even to the pain. That was how I felt the moment when those who I loved went up to Jude's little casket and said their final goodbyes. But it wasn't until I saw my parent's broken faces, the tears streaming down my dad's face knowing that he never got to nor would he ever hold my son, that the numbness evaporated to an intense gripping pain in my chest.
Wes and I both stayed well after everyone left and watched the lowering of my son's casket to the ground. A huge bulldozer filled with dirt waited in the sidelines for the cue from the funeral director who made no move to rush us. It wasn't until the casket was fully lowered that the enormity of what was happening hit me. I will never hold my son again, I will never change his diaper, I will never get to feed him from these engorged breasts which betrayed me with milk, I will never be whole.
At that moment it didn't seem right to have the dirt cover my son like discarded trash. The ground was so cold. There was no blanket for him there to cover his tiny body. I collapsed next to the edge of his gave and at that moment wanted my broken heart to finally do what it should: stop beating. I would be buried with Jude. My Jude. My son.
It was my husband's hand firmly placed on my shoulder that stopped what I only thought was right. His hand began to warm my chilled body and pull me back from the darkest moment of my life.
He gave a silent nod to the funeral director and slowly the bulldozer full of dirt began to cover my son. It took such little time to fill that tiny but gaping hole. The finality of it didn't hit me until the perfectly cut out square of grass was placed back on top of the dirt and patted with a flat metal device.
This was my first funeral, and I know it will not be my last. Though I pray every day that it will be the last time I will have to bury a piece of myself and have to walk weakly away.
Jae, your words echo through my soul. The only difference of your story is that my sky that day was raining non stop, as I stood at he feet of my daughters burial. I will never forget that day, because that day they I also died. They just forget to bury me with my heart :( hugs friend!
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