Meditations

I am standing in church - not always an easy place to stand. For once, I am alone. The eldest are in Sunday school, little one is at the creche with daddy. But, it's more than that. In a crowd of maybe 150 people, I am alone. I wonder how many of them remember my daughter's name. I wonder how many even remember I had another daughter. And then it happens. I have my eyes closed and I feel arms around my neck ... the half hug, half stranglehold of a toddler and her mummy. And I know, I know it's Emma. Not Emma as I usually think of her - a newborn baby, my forever baby - never changing, never growing. This is Emma as she would be now - 2 and some. Flying hair and energy. I keep my eyes closed. I don't want to open them and see her absence. I treasure this tiny taste of my longing - I have never sensed her this strongly before. And then it fades. I am standing alone in church.

***

I take a bag containing old rags and a bottle of water with me and we stop on the way to school to choose some flowers. I leave the older ones at school and continue, littlest boy tied firmly to my back, to the graveyard. I stand by my daughter, but not my daughter - her body but not her being - and chatter whilst T. tries to wriggle his way to freedom. I don't let him and he settles as I lean over her gravestone, pour water over it and start to rub away the evidence of a wet and muddy couple of weeks. I suddenly become aware that I am singing - that's why T. has stilled. He recognises the song from my occasional bath times - a tuneless little ditty about splish splashing. I'm the crazy lady unconsciously humming bath-time tunes as I clean my daughter's headstone. And I have an epiphany. I suddenly understand what we all mean when we talk about parenting a dead child. I have never really been sure how you do that. Now, I do. I pack up my rags and my empty bottle and set off for home, still singing silly songs to the one on my back and the one in my heart.

***

I am hanging out washing and little toddler boy is doing what, in this family, is called hooning. He's marching round and round the garden, completely in love with his still-new mobility. No place to get too but it's purposeful movement nonetheless. "What I am doing is important", his sturdy little body proclaims. I turn away to pick up some more washing and I can't move. I look down and two chubby arms completely encircle my legs and my son hugs me hard and wholeheartedly. I lift my face to the delicious, warm sun and think, "I am happy, so very, very happy."