YESTERDAY

Yesterday, I went to the cemetery to visit my son’s grave on his birthday. As I drove through the gate I noticed how abandoned the place was, no cars, no people, and everywhere I walked I saw new graves. These graves are reminders that we are in a pandemic, one where the Federal Government has failed to prepare us for. Ask the doctors and nurses and they will tell you what they lack to fight this crisis without putting themselves in danger. If you ask the hospital administrators, they will tell you how many respirators are needed, how many gowns they need, they will mention the lack of face protection and gloves.

The quiet of the cemetery will accentuate the thoughts you have with no distractions to take your mind off of things. My focus in talking to my son Joseph was more intense than usual; there is more I need to tell him about my fears and anxieties.

As I turned to walk to my car as I have so many times these past 39 years, I clearly recalled in all its entirety the cold weather and footprints in the snow that January day as the graveside service ended.

Burying a child makes it final, it makes it hard, and it makes it through your heart and soul with a searing tear that never leaves you. It is a repulsive thought that the child will no longer interact with you physically, but will take up permanent residence in both your heart and soul, that I am grateful for.

As I climbed into my car I left behind the footprints in the snow of yesteryear and the mud from the new graves of yesterday, and acknowledge that I need to come to the cemetery and find my sense of what life is all about, and to continue tomorrow to make more footprints.