Twenty-six years later

We had to drop off Sloane's tiny dress for her funeral on Monday, so I took the kids out into the baby section of the cemetery. I want us all to get comfortable in this place. There were several people decorating the plots of their loved ones —  miniature Christmas trees everywhere, tinsel sparkling in the sunshine. 

My three-year-old got away from me, though she was being very good, and I found her telling an older lady, "I like your decorations. They are very nice." Luckily, this woman was friendly. She asked me if I had a baby there. I said, "On Monday." She was Hispanic and with difficulty tried to share her story. She said, "This is my baby. Four months old. Twenty-six years, I come. Still so sad." I threw my arms around her, because her mask was down and her whole body seemed to be collapsing under the weight of sorrow she felt. We said goodbye, and I sobbed my way back to the car. I cried for her, at over sixty years old still longing, and I cried for my own future.