All that philosiphising for nothing

I was on the tractor over the weekend helping Steve aerate the lawn. (That came straight out of the book of things I thought I would never say!) It gives me some "alone" time away from the baby and gives him that special Father-Daughter bonding time. As I made my slow laps around the backyard, I noticed something pale and feathery in the grass. It was a dead little bird.

I don't know why it would catch me off guard - living in the "country" I do see these things from time to time. I guess there's always something about a small dead animal that makes you sad.

It's been a rough week in the Fulton family with death. We had a close family friend pass away last week, and it's plunged us all into the midst of solemnity. Steve, more than I, had to deal with the details et cetera. On Friday we left the graveside to visit another grave of a close family member. As he spent a few moments alone beside the site, I allowed myself to wander around. It was a gorgeous day and there were no people around. I don't mean to sound morose, but I really love graveyards. I remember meandering through them in Europe, wondering what people had chosen as their last words to the living. I remember seeing countless Jewish cemeteries where the headstones had been destroyed by German soldiers. I don't know why their families didn't fix them. Although they probably had more important issues at the time. But it just fascinated me to walk through the silent fields, imaging the details of the lives underneath me.

Seeing as these graveyards were in my native tongue, I could freely read what people had written on their headstones. Some said things like "Beloved Mother" or "Brother", Some had pictures etched, others just dates. One little stone caught my eye because it had a lamb on it. I found that an odd choice, but as I bent down I saw it was a five year old. My heart just ached. So many of the couples' gravestones said things about how much they loved each other, or witticisms about "moving to a bigger place." There were some with exact same date of death, and some - where a wife followed her husband by only a few days. That's always fascinated me.

As I started back toward my husband, I noticed a gravestone with an actual picture in it. I've never seen one with a "frame" of sorts to hold a photo, so I bent for a closer look.

It was an 11 month old.

I was as breathless as those on whose graves I had so carelessly tread. Someone lost their 11 month old baby. The same exact age as Madeline. I thought, for one second, about losing my baby girl, and nearly had an anxiety attack.

I remember when I first lost someone close to me - a friend close to my own age. I remember telling my mom a few months later, that I wanted to send my friend's parents a letter, telling them the things I loved about my friend, but I didn't want to be in poor taste. My Mother told me that, as a parents, when you bury a child, your worst fear is that they'll be forgotten. That no one will pause to remember them after a few years go by. That's always stuck with me.

According to the gravestone,the baby was born and died in the late 70s, just a few years before I was born. I don't know the family. I don't know the circumstances. But, at that moment, I was grieving for their loss. I prayed that at that exact moment they would feel comfort and know, somehow, that someone was thinking about their baby.

My little bird...my everything.

"They" say you can't understand the love you have for a child until you have one of your own. Truer words were never spoken. I've never loved or felt anything vaguely close to how much I love Madeline. I would give my life in a nanosecond if it would give a chance of saving her. It made me feel badly about those times I get frustrated with her for whining or not giving me 2 minutes to "myself." My baby is alive and healthy. Every day with her is a gift.

As I got closer to the bird, I was trying to figure out how to avoid it with the tractor and not leave a huge patch of tall, un-aerated grass. I can see it now:

Steve: "Why is there a huge patch of tall grass out there?"
Erin: "Because there was a dead bird out there."
Steve: "O...k."
Erin: "Well, I didn't want to run over him. You know . . . out of respect."

Although my husband would have understood, his overly sensitive, melancholy wife. I tried to reason myself into disassociating with the little bird. But, the moment was upon me, and I moved the tractor ever so slightly and missed the feathers. I thought maybe I could just walk over it in my high heels or something.

I parked the tractor and went to visit my own little one. She was wrapped up in blankets, her arm slung over her red already tattered bear. I resisted the urge to swoop her up, but ran my hand over her back for a long time.

I don't know what I'll do when she wants to leave the safety of my nest.

My husband and I settled in with a fire outside, and talked about the events of the week-finally having some time to reflect on them.

The next day I was scattering some of our fire's ashes on the compost (it keeps the dogs and coyotes out of it) and noticed the bird carcass a few feet away. I knew my city dog turned country scavenger would make a feast out of it, so I concocted a plan to scoop it to the far end of the yard with a shovel.

As I neared - I realized it was a dried up husk from some corn we'd roasted a few weeks before. It must have blown off the compost heap.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise