Elegy for Unforgotten Babies

After my wife’s dad’s funeral mass, Mom wanted her closest family

to drive together to visit the cemetery in Toledo where Maritess—

her stillborn child—was buried under an elm tree back in 1975.

Despite being a part of my father-in-law’s cortège—Mom, sisters,

grandchildren, my wife, my children—I felt all alone after delivering the eulogy

because shouldering the heft of that moment knocked me off-balance,

scythed my breath, blurred my vision, so I was half-aware

of my surroundings driving down s-curved single-lane roads

between graves and ancient trees and I didn’t fully understand

where we were parked until I focused on the flat tombstones

lining the Garden floor where she had been interred.

I noticed the first stone only had one inscribed date.

Looking around me I saw day-old infants in every direction.

I walked away between the stones recalling stories

of my older brother who died of a genetic condition

in 1978–born with only half his face–

after a drawn-out labor that nearly took my mom along with him.

As my mom recovered, my dad had to decide Aaron’s fate–

alone.

Dad said he was told not to bury Aaron, to let go,

and as I balanced just on the edge of the grass

between markers for day-old infants–one from 1976, one from 1977–

I imagined how alone my dad was as he balanced

between holding on a little longer and letting go forever,

and being at the cemetery grieving with unforgotten babies

after the eulogy made me think he should have heard other advice.