The empty white hearse from the grave rumbled back . . .
Somebody’s baby was laid out to rest,
White as a snowdrop, and fair to behold . . .
~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox ~
[see full poem in comments below]
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| For Hope's 60th Birthday |
Little Hope, we never knew you, not even hardly. I was only six at the time of your short life and did not really understand what was going on, except that the grown-ups were sad. Your diagnosis was anencephaly, and your prognosis was "incompatible with life." In those days, there were no ultrasounds to alert prospective parents of trouble ahead. Perhaps a hint of mother's intituion or an unexpected look of concern on a doctor's face, but nothing more than that.
You were the last of six siblings. You would have broken the tie between three boys and three girls! Would you be a lot like me in taste and temperment? Or maybe more like one of the others? Athletic or musical or a bookworm? Would you have a large family of your own by now? Or maybe live somewhere exotic and far away?
I remember only a little of the week you lived. I was in the 1st grade. It was Easter. The adults were distracted, obviously, and in a stray moment, I caught a glimpse of the store-bought candy in the tall cabinet over the refrigerator and somehow knew that those same treats would be in my basket the next day. Almost imperceptibly, I moved a few baby-steps out of early childhood that weekend.
Years later, when I became a parent, my mother entrusted me with Hope's birth and death certificates. By that time I had grown in understanding of the loss to our family, and knew from experience that every pregnancy is "dearly bought" (see Ella Wheeler Wilcox, below). Somewhere along the way, I began the tradition of sending my mom a little token in honor of Hope, every March 28th. It was never hard to find a "Hope" themed souvenir -- an elegant bookmark, a simple bracelet charm, a quaint mother - child postcard, something just right in memory of our little snowdrop, our small dragonfly hunter.
When my mother died, I sorted through her papers and found these notes that we had written to her during her confinement. In 1964, Easter was on March 29th, and Hope was born on Saturday, March 28th, so almost like this year. Dave, Peg, and Di were staying with our other grandparents; Aaron was only 2 1/2, so I let him scribble on the back of my letter:
decoration on Hope's grave
I wonder how far
My small dragonfly hunter
Has wandered today!
~ Chiyo ~
The Little White Hearse
ReplyDeleteSomebody’s baby was buried to-day—
The empty white hearse from the grave rumbled back,
And the morning somehow seemed less smiling and gay
As I paused on the walk while it crossed on its way,
And a shadow seemed drawn o’er the sun’s golden track.
Somebody’s baby was laid out to rest,
White as a snowdrop, and fair to behold,
And the soft little hands were crossed over the breast,
And those hands and the lips and the eyelids were pressed
With kisses as hot as the eyelids were cold.
Somebody saw it go out of her sight,
Under the coffin lid—out through the door;
Somebody finds only darkness and blight
All through the glory of summer-sun light;
Somebody’s baby will waken no more.
Somebody’s sorrow is making me weep:
I know not her name, but I echo her cry,
For the dearly bought baby she longed so to keep,
The baby that rode to its long-lasting sleep
In the little white hearse that went rumbling by.
I know not her name, but her sorrow I know;
While I paused on the crossing I lived it once more,
And back to my heart surged that river of woe
That but in the breast of a mother can flow;
For the little white hearse has been, too, at my door.
By Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1850-1919)