The other day I witnessed one of the saddest things I’ve ever seen. Having nothing to do while my six-year old daughter was at dance practice, my three-year old little boy and I decided to take a walk. Turns out the only place to enjoy a leisurely walk near the dancing studio was a beautiful cemetery across the street. Rolling hills, quiet gardens, the whole deal. Tombstones and monuments mean nothing to Dylan, who was enjoying the walk with his dad through a quiet, pastoral place—a nice contrast for his fiery, fidgety mood. Not far into the grounds, a monument caught my eye because it had children’s toys, most new-looking, carefully laid around it. There was even a small snapshot of the person being memorialized, a boy whose dates were 2001 to 2006. The little chestnut-haired boy had an incredibly cute smile. He looked to be in perfect health. Flowers and toy tractors adorned his stone. I couldn’t imagine what could possibly have cut down a boy like this when he was only five years old. “Beloved son, grandson, and brother. We know you are enjoying your new friends in heaven.” Dylan, understanding nothing of this, of course, went up to take the toy tractor and stuffed animals. It was almost surreal, watching my buoyant, adorable son playing around the tomb of someone who had lived only a couple of years more than his three. It made me thankful and mournful at the same time. I patiently advised to Dylan that not only should he not be playing with any of these things, because they didn’t belong to him, but he shouldn’t be playing around this little wall at all. All the rest would have been too painful to even try to explain.
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