Cemetery Visits

I cry at the cemetery more and more now. I no longer find peace in my heart, it echoes around me a sad and lonely place. It is in those moments I realize my empty arms, my lost hopes, my shattered future with Gabriel. It is in the quiet of looking down at his grave that I am suffocating in silence, there are no cries of a newborn, no giggles of a toddler, no whispers of a teenager or strong words of a man. His lips are to never part in a goodbye kiss or deafining shriek. His hands are forever tiny, never to bear the ring of a husband. His feet captured in tiny innocence, never to feel the grass beneath them. Instead, he is beneath the grass. I wish I didn't know what was happening to his body...he should be thriving with life, his growing only to continue. But instead he is falling apart, as all who come to pass do, and I feel broken hearted and an agony washes over me in this moment. A pain so deep no tears will fall to bring sweet relief. I realize his body is mere feet beneath my hands. There were times when we first went to the cemetery and I would be overcome with an ache in my soul. I would dig my nails into the hard dirt of his grave and swear I could fix him, I would beg to only let me hold him for a moment and I would put him back...no one would have to know. My husband would have to pry me away, angry that I would dare to disturb his sons resting place. This grief is twisted, I wish I could just sleep away the days of now and wake in a brighter future...I wish I could fix my son...but my body has been labeled useless now.