Dia de los Muertos
A tiny tin-shrine memorial with a dried rose from my hospital flowers. Made for Dia de los Muertos celebrations at Monkfish Abbey, November ’05.
“Lord, let now your servant, depart in peace according to thy word. For my eyes have seen thy salvation…”
He was very tiny, about the length of my arm from my elbow to my wrist. The nurse, nervous and new at this kind of sorrow, had eventually managed to wrap him in blankets, one small arm extending outside of the heap, his hand so frail I was afraid to touch it lest I tear his fragile skin.
We had wept so many tears for him, our doomed son. Tears in the dark sonogram room; tears when my knees collapsed in the hospital stairway; tears when we told our parents; tears as we waited all the long week to see him delivered; tears in the cold procedures room as the new nurse fled and we were left to deliver our baby alone.
There were more tears now, as we played him special songs, anointed his head in our own private baptism, sang him chants from my Lutheran childhood. Tear as we set him in the infant warmer — now disconnected and cold — to say goodbye.
Later, a union would go on strike and his ashes would wait for weeks at the crematorium before we could claim them. A small plastic bag in a square cardboard box, sealed tight with a twist tie and silver dog tag bearing not his name, but his case number, long and unfamiliar. We would cry again then, finally retrieving his remains, and dusting the water with him on the edge of the sound.
My mother cried these same tears for her first child, drugged and foggy as she came to from the delivery room. Empty arms wondering where her son had gone. My aggrieved father explaining the still birth, full term but not fulfilled. She never got to see her son, to hold his hand, to say goodbye. It just wasn’t done in those days. The hospital ferried him away without even a gravestone. The nursery packed up and painted before she was released to come home. Even now, he doesn’t have a name.
As a young teen, I read a story where a girl hides from school bullies in the shed of a cemetery. There she finds a statue of a child who had died long ago. The base of the statue read, “Our beloved Benjamin.” That’s how I think of my long lost brother — as Benjamin, uncle to Simeon, who also left too soon.
It is not within my rights to name my mother’s son as Benjamin, but I can name–did name–my own. And today, on this day to remember the dead, I remember Simeon David Chapman, who made me a mother, who is this mother’s only son.
17 comments
I feel as if I’m about to tiptoe onto sacred ground in posting this comment. This is a touching and desperately sad post. I am so very sorry to hear of this double loss in your life. Thank you for writing about it.
This story is profoundly moving. Thank you so much for sharing it.
I was moved to tears by your story . . . thank you for this gift.
Wow. Thank you so much for posting this. It is so achingly beautiful that is has brought tears to my eyes.
Yes, I would like to add my thank you for this story about Simeon whom you loved.
This day and this month I remember the sudden death of my father in November 2000.
I’m so sorry. This post really struck a chord with me too ~ it mirrors my family’s story. Thank you for sharing and helping me grieve. I’m sending love and understanding to you. x
Let me offer my thanks for your story and my sympathies for your loss.
Dear dear Rachelle-
This is such a beautiful piece and a wonderful remembrance of a boy so beloved. My heart aches with you as I read it. I wish you both peace.
Thank you everyone. I actually look forward to remembering Simeon, and his story — as well as remembering my Grandfather “Buddy,” each time this special day rolls around. All Soul’s creates a space in my life to remember bittersweet things, and to honor the people I miss. The kids and I decorated our mantle as our dia de los muertos altar yesterday. It looks so festive with all it’s icons and colors. I highly recommend this holiday of remembrance!
[...] entirely appropriate to start with Magpie Girl, who writes honestly about searing loss in Dia de Los Muertos, without losing sight of [...]
wishing you peace to hold your sorrow.
I am struck by your story and most especially by the names. Benjamin was my brother who ended his life nearly 5 years ago. He was uncle so my son Simon David, named in part after my grandmother’s first child David who died as a baby. My grandmother still aches for that baby after all these years and I continue to tiptoe around the hole my brother left. We can’t help but remember them, can we?
Magpie Ima,
It’s odd that our culture expects us to “get over” this kind of loss. One of my seminary professeors, Dr. Thena Ayers talked to me about her mother’s death and said something like: “Nothing fills in the void their passing leaves, but in time, the edges get softer.” I think that’s a good metphors for the grieving/remembering expereience, yes?
This is a wonderful post–my friend Claudia sent me the link. I also enjoyed poking around your blog tonight! Anyway, I’m at work on a book about infant loss, Naming the Child: Stories of Infant Loss (Paraclete Press, Spring 2009). I’d like to speak with you over the phone about your story, and perhaps include and excerpt/quote in my book. Would you be up for that?
If so, drop me a line at jen@dayblue.com.
I look forward to connecting with you.
Jenny
Thank you for sharing your story. I read that book when I was younger, too. I’m glad for the reminder.
Your blog is a place of great sensitivity and beauty.
Brightest blessings,
Ruby
I just came across your blog this evening. Your heart-wrenching story touched me in a deep way. I, too, lost a son named Simeon three years ago tomorrow. Your ability to share your immense sorry and loss of innocence is amazing. Thank you for sharing your story. I am holding up the light for you as you have done for me. Peace to you.
magpie | please continue to share your heart with the world. your ability to capture the emotion from your loss, serves as the seed to help plants heal and grow where others’ tears gently weep.
simeon.
just beautiful.
you are remembered sweet angel.
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