I used to visit Xavier’s grave weekly.  I don’t go so often anymore, but it’s still a part of my life.  It always seems so strange to stand there, knowing that a part of my son resides in this saddest of gardens.  I wrote this a week or so after Xavier had been buried.

Your Grave

There is a place I go to,
Even though it makes me cry.
There is a place I go to,
Though it makes me wonder why.

Why so many little lives,
Were tragically cut short.
There is a little garden,
Which holds more children than it ought.

My little son is amongst them,
Amongst the graves and flowers,
Amongst butterflies and windmills,
Amongst sad and silent hours.

He has a little grave,
Where the mound is still high.
He’s next to another boy,
Who shouldn’t have had to die.

I wonder if he watches  me,
Crying over his tiny grave.
I wonder if he whispers,
“oh mummy, please be brave”

I wonder if he plays with,
The other children who are here.
Is he now best friends,
With the baby who is near?

I will never meet his little mates,
Never know who’s his favourite one.
But I like to think of them,
together, playing in the sun.

I hope that he is happy,
That he’s surround by love and light.
I hope he know his mummy,
Keeps his memory bright.

So I’ll keep on coming,
And every time I’ll shed a tear.
You are so very far away,
But it’s the place you feel most near.