Hanging the Moon

I went to visit Caitlin's grave tonight. I was relieved to see that her things were all there. The caretakers mow carefully and replace her things as best as can be expected. I was so grateful to squeeze her toy and listen to the sounds with her. I don't understand. I still don't understand how this happened. I know it happened. I mean, my mind knows how it happened, but my heart, my mother's heart, doesn't understand.

I wept. I left a kiss on her stone. The wetness of my tears and lips stayed as long as they could, but then, the evidence of my love evaporated into the air. The ground has grown up around her grave. It's settled in and grass has covered the scars from where they replaced the sod. I put my hands on that ground, wishing I could draw her from it. My mother's heart, the part that doesn't understand, sent a hope that I would feel her heart beat beneath the ground. That heart that saved mine.

I stayed for some time and watched the sky, but I saw no stars and no moon. The night sky--open, no clouds, barely a breeze, and as bleak as my soul. I placed a star at her stone to let her know that I was there. I stared at that star and came to understand it as a metaphor for my daughter. Unreachable and beautiful. I looked up and at last found a single star in the sky. And as is typical for a bereaved mother, I knew to keep staring, to watch carefully, to study the sky for more, and then I saw a shooting star in the early evening sky. It's light was still bright enough to shine through a not-yet-black night. I smiled. It's hard to refute a sign, even when I don't yet know if I believe in them.

The darkness finally surrounded us, me kneeling on sacred ground and my daughter shining from above hanging a sliver of a moon.