For Owen Samuel Elliot; Forever In Our Hearts.

The woman stood over the plaque, shoulders stooped and shaking. She felt as though her chest was being ripped open and her heart torn apart over and over. How was she supposed to deal? Why did this happen? Why her family? Why was it her child that had to be taken? They got to hold him, feel his weight in their arms. But they never got to hear his cries, feel his own warmth.  She stood here now, not just where her grandfather’s ashes were buried, but now also where her son’s plaque sat in his memory. Beside her, arms around her shoulders, stood the man who had stood beside her like a rock the entire time. It was only because of him that she wasn’t falling apart.

Eight months ago, everything had been going to plan. Eight months ago, they were excited, albeit a little nervous. Eight months ago, they were happy. Until something went wrong. They still didn’t know what caused their unborn son’s heart to stop beating. They doubted they ever would know why. What they did know is that one day he had been fine. What they did know is, they had expressed concern at her discomfort, only to be brushed off until next week. Except there wouldn’t be a next week. It would be too late by then.

The hardest thing they had to hear came on the Monday. No heartbeat. No blood flow. He was gone. All they could do was cry. She still held hope, though. Her foolish heart refused to believe what her mind was already beginning to accept. Her tears flowed free, but until she held him in her arms hours later, as he lay silent, eyes closed as though he was merely sleeping, she held on to hope.

A week later, she stood with friends, talking and laughing as other people milled around, staying in small groups and acting as though nothing was wrong. Until they had to enter the room. The tiny white coffin stood at the front as they filed in. Once more, her tears flowed free, and her heart began to break all over again as it began to sink in, she would never get to hold him again. As Creed began to play, the curtains began to close and all she could do was sob, her face buried into the chest of the man who was her rock. She felt others watching, heard the gentle sobs around her but she didn’t care. She couldn’t care. She didn’t feel like she could go on after this. How could she?

Another week passed, and they sat in the waiting room at the tattoo parlour. She was excited to be getting another tattoo after waiting so long. When she was called in, she was fine, happy to chat but nervous about the first moments of pain. The artist lay the stencil on her arm, and as she checked out the position in the mirror, her lip began to tremble. Sitting down once more, the artist put his hand on her wrist, silent comfort as he allowed her to indulge in the moment of pain. She knew, though, that she needed to do this, and soon she was soothed by the sound and feel of the image being imprinted in her skin. The image of an infant’s hand in hers, his name and birthdate carefully scripted below. Of all the tattoos she knew she would ever get, this would always be the one she treasured most; the one with the most meaning.

Months passed by. They had almost returned to a normal life, until the day they laid the plaque, when it felt as though the wound was open anew. There was no room for denial as they put it in the flower bed next to her grandfather’s spot. She was grateful it was just the two of them there, a private moment of parental grief, keener than any other pain she’d ever felt, or any she ever thought she would feel again.

Christmas came and went. It wasn’t as hard as she expected. Allowing herself a few tears while people still arrived, she quietly sat through the day. More months passed. Some days, she just wanted to curl into a ball and cry. Other days, it felt like a bad dream. She wasn’t able to bring herself to visit his plaque. Not yet. Not until Easter, as they drove out so her cousin could visit their grandfather’s site, see their son’s for the first time, and also find the plaque for another child lost to the family too soon. She stood over the blue heart plaque for the first time in months, tears streaming down her face once more, as her cousin sobbed quietly beside her.

A week later, they brought a little tiger out. She laid it carefully above the plaque, and although her heart ached, and she felt them welling, no tears fell. She knew that she would cry later, but for now, she stood over his plaque, looking at it as the concrete and bronze object that it was, knowing that his ashes were at home, in the room she barely entered. Next time, she was sure there would be tears. Just not this time.

Although her head knew she would eventually learn to live with the pain, she couldn’t imagine it. Not right now. Her body still had the biological urge to try again, and the endless ads with infants, the television shows with pregnant women, all fanned that flicker of want into a burning desire, but she knew she wasn’t ready. One day, she was sure they would try again. But not this year. This year she would take to heal. If she ever fully could.

He would always be in their hearts. He would always be their boy. Forever sleeping.