By Ken Hamilton
Niagara Gazette — No mother should ever have to do such, especially so close to the day that we celebrate the joys of even having a mother, but Mrs. Crockett buried her son on Wednesday. It was one of the saddest days of my life. I was fine until Mrs. Crockett whispered the cause of her son’s death to me and expressed the comfort that she took in that his pain and suffering was over now.
I cannot say that whatever vestiges of residual pain that she may have kept buried deep within the same bosom upon which her once-baby Jeffrey had rested his head and fallen asleep had leaped from her heart and into mine. But upon her so doing, I did feel extreme emotional distress. For you see, it was not just another funeral — I have been to way too many of those lately. It was not that I didn’t know the pain of burying a child; for I was there in the maternity waiting room when my godson was born, and then 14 years later, I was there at that small and crowded church for his funeral. Neither was it because Jeffrey’s funeral took place less than a week before Mothers Day, and that I knew Jeffrey’s dear, sweet mom for nearly all of my own life, nor was it because of my lose, as a child, of my own mom to a disease that reminded me of the one that took Jeffrey away from his mom and his loved ones. Instead, it was because of all of those things — every one of them; and all of those aforementioned memories rushed into my mind like a mighty waterfall, and they flooded me with emotion. One moment became all moments, all events became one event and all people became one person, as I drowned in the effervescent and confusing pool of despair; so much so that, that in the pain of the moment, Mrs. Crockett became all things to me. Her calm and her comforting hug became every comfort to me that I had ever had; and in the succeeding moments, she was everyone who had done me anything good — and I credited her for things for which she likely would have done if asked, but had not done. I am embarrassed and I apologize for that. Sunday will be my 52 motherless-Mothers Day. For those of you who still have mothers, regardless of what you may think of them, take a day to honor them — for too many of them have already buried too many of their own children. Furthermore, if you know of any mother who has buried a child, then, just for a moment, become a son or daughter to them. For you see, in the end, one moment is all moments, all events are one event and all people are, indeed, one person. It is the near-eve of Mothers Day, and no mother should ever have to bury her own child. But like too many other mothers, Mrs. Crockett had to do so; and it saddens me.
Contact Ken Hamilton at firstname.lastname@example.org.