Just one small boy……...
I love old graveyards. When my husband was in the Air Force and we were coming back from a TDY (temp duty) in Colorado in 1988 we stopped at a small out of the way town to eat, across the street was an old cemetery.
I could
see the old broken worn gate half open, half closed with a rusted metal sign
hanging above by one chain that had a date of 1845.
As we sat outside eating our lunch I mentioned going over when we were done- we
headed across the two lane road which was probably the town's main street and
not a car in sight. The gate was stuck in place John, my husband had to
force it- him with our oldest on his shoulders and me with a baby in tow and in
knee deep overgrown wheat all about us. The gate finally gave!
John did not think we should go in it was so high, but I was drawn to something
I had seen from across the street and while he stomped grass down to make it
easier for our sons to walk I took off on my own to the place that had caught
my attention before. It had looked like a baby crib from across the way. It was
a wrought iron rectangle about the size, of a crib.
I found it and approached pushing back the gone wild dying roses, careful to
avoid the thorns- it had at one time been painted white, but now was as
yellowing as the marble inside it.
On closer inspection it was, supposed to be a crib. Tears instantly rolled down
my cheeks!
The lovely ironwork still held its place the craftsman's had constructed it in,
not only the fashion of a crib but also the delicate ironwork of the slats and
top rail were to mimic a crib. And the peeling paint and weathered conditions
did not take away from the stately manner, in which its presence commandeered
your respect.
Inside, there was a raised slab of marble on top was another piece, or the one
had been carved to make it look like two with the cracks and aging it was hard
to tell, but it gave the appearance of a lovely baby bed. On top a folded back
quilt lovingly carved with delicate lace work around the edges.
And a matching pillow sat near the head of the bed with the same delicate lace
work on the ends.
It was old it was unkempt and yet you could still feel the undying love that
had went into this small boy's grave site. He was one year old, and had died of
no known cause. The inscription told of a young couple's only child and his
great loss. The year was 1857, and while I have seen much beautiful stonework-
many eloquently written parables and epitaphs over the years and been in
cemeteries from Silver Falls Colorado to Silverton Oregon and some of the
oldest graveyards in the country- that small crib has stayed with me.
I was sad that the camera was packed away and out of film as I would have liked
to record that moment in time. I often wonder what they thought of this small
young family stomping down wheat grass in their old neglected long
forgotten
graveyard that last held people from the First World War and since had gone to
rack and ruin.
Did his family feel our connection and see my tears? Did they watch my sons
play among the loss of their own? I did not feel as an intruder, but as a
welcome guest to share in a family's testament to the love of one child that
would stand for generations. And in a way that made him seem as if his life was
not cut so short. Because long after most, his parents included. And any
siblings he may have had later on (no graves found)- were long dead, they are
not being shared or written about today- he is.
Only one small boy, with a cherub watching over him at the head of the crib and
a mother's prayer etched on the bed she had commissioned for him to be
sheltered by for all time. To me that simple gesture sealed how all people who
wandered through that small little piece of land set up for goodbyes, would see
her son and come away a bit changed so much so that like me I bet they have
told others through the years- what a great gift they gave him- immortality! No
baby king, no great ruler, not in the history books, but forever in all who
visits hearts. I wonder if she knew?
By Sandy Metcalf
