On Friday we went to my hometown to bury our baby, Emanuel Elizabeth, in the cemetery plots where my grandpa is buried, and where my grandma and dad will one day rest.
I love my hometown. It’s small, mostly friendly and people wave when you drive by – even if they don’t know you.
Whenever our minivan pulls into small town for a family visit, I feel a certain nostalgia. It’s so strong, I can smell it. I wouldn’t give up having growing up in said small town for anything.
This town is so small I don’t think I could ever be an adult living there. It’s a place to be a kid, and I don’t see it allowing me t o ever grow up. That’s how I like it. For this reason, I don’t think I’ll ever live there again – but I’ll always call it home.
And now, so will Emanuel Elizabeth. Of course, his/her home is with God. But small town will be our baby’s earthly place. This makes me very happy.
The reality of the day, and the whole event didn’t hit me until we pulled in to park at the cemetery. Small town currently has inches of winter snow on the ground. Paths needed to be plowed, headstones needed to be uncovered, and ground needed to be warmed in order for Emanuel Elizabeth to be buried.
And, it was the site of these preparations that made me realize what we were doing. One doesn’t undo what nature has done, defying the seasons, unless it’s of dire importance. So, the path was cleared and the baby’s mark in the snow seemed so much clearer than his/her mark on me. The mound of snow sitting behind the burial spot taunted me with its large scale. I heard its screams loud and clear and think it’s about time they turn into my own – but I’m not there, yet.
The rest of the details and emotions of the day we’ll keep to ourselves, for now.