Hope... Lost

By Deborah Reilly

     Standing there in the bright sunlight of an autumn afternoon, it looked more like a small, unusual park than anything else. Surrounded by a little white fence; which had dozens of balloons, stuffed animals, and brightly covered ribbons tied to it; to enter, one passed between two larger than life guardian angels which graced the gate. The air was filled with the music of many wind chimes, which sang gently as the trees to which they were attached danced lightly in the light breeze.

     There were collections of flowers and toys everywhere, and it was not until one looked closer that the realization dawned that these items had been placed on graves. In every direction, as far as the eye could see, there were graves... tiny little burial plots, most with tiny little headstones, many with sculptures of children or angels on them; for these were the resting places of children.

     This place, deceivingly beautiful and cheerful, with it's toys, balloons, and wind chimes, was a place of hope... lost hope. The hope of parents and grandparents and other family members who came here to bury that hope with their dead children.

     On the road there is the sound of cars approaching. A white hearse followed by a small procession of a few cars turns in and stops at the gate. People emerge from the cars, faces pale and almost expressionless, as if they had been carved from the same marble as the little headstones and sculptures on the graves. A tiny casket is removed from the back of the hearse. It is carried across the parking area, and through the gate by two young men. The wind chimes are silent now, as if even the wind is frozen in this moment in time. The only sound is that of gravel crunching under feet, then total silence as the group enters the cemetery through the gate and follows the heart breakingly small coffin across the grassy cemetery towards a very little hole in the ground.

     As the two men carrying the casket approach the grave site, one staggers slightly. Sometimes it is the smallest of things that are too heavy to carry. As the minister begins speaking the familiar words of this familiar ritual, a young woman stands cradling herself with her arms, arms that should be holding a small, warm body. Surrounded by family and friends, with her husband at her side, at this moment in her life, she is utterly alone.

     As the minister speaks the last words of the ceremony and closes his bible, one tear rolls down the young woman's cheek. Almost at the same moment, one balloon escapes it's tether on the fence, and drifts upward into the mellow autumn sky, taken by the wind which has once again begun to whisper through the trees. As they turn to leave, the wind chimes sing, but softly this time, as if to offer comfort to those who cannot be comforted.

     There are many stories that do not end with happily ever after. This is one of them.