The Woman Behind the Stone

The snow, soft and moist like the kind a child would make snowballs with, frames the cold cement. 
We can see it's reflection as we approach. 
Hear the crunch beneath our footsteps.
Feel the sun shining, and the cool breeze lightly kissing the cheeks of the children

who shouldn't have to be here.

Her hands, bigger than they had been last time she approached, yet still so small, clutch the stem of the sign that she would soon push into the earth next to the stone.  The sign, and it's twin...the identical sign that she would bring home with her to keep...represent the things that were most important to each of them.

                

His hands, the strong hands of a boy who is emerging as a young man now, gently and securely wrapped around a bouquet of flowers...one for each of them who should not have to come here...that he would soon push into the earth next to the stone.  He remembers more, but speaks less.  Holds on tightly to the flowers, and to her in his heart, pretending to understand. 

I have already been crying for miles.  Anticipating the scene that I am witnessing now.  Thinking of all that the woman behind the stone is missing out on.  A little girl, half of her life has passed since the last time their eyes met, the last time she felt her embrace.  Is mine any comfort?  Some, but not enough to dry the tears that I see streaming down her cheeks now.

A young man, standing here where he shouldn't have to stand, holding back his own tears.  Holding back, yet the look on his face speaks volumes.  It speaks of the yearning, the longing, the acceptance, the determination that she would be proud of. 

Time stands still for a moment.  They feel closer to her, as they run their hands over the roses, the cross, and the words of love engraved in the stone.  Yet strangely it makes the distance seem farther.  The emptiness deeper.  The wound in their souls that hides during the living of life that continues on, comes fresh to the surface now. 

We never met,
the woman behind the stone and I,
yet we are connected.

Through those I stand with now, whose reflections I see

in the stone framed with snow.

Through the love of a mother's heart.

Through the life I see

in their eyes,
and in their laughter
as they share their stories and their memories
of their mother.