Personal Blogs

Where Geese Cry South: On the Loss of a Son

I was out for a walk one night this week. Near where I live there’s a pleasant circular route that eventually takes me past the graveyard. It was dusk, and the high, plaintive squeaking of geese migrating south reminded me that the frost was creeping in.

Unexpectedly, I came across a woman sitting on a chair at her son’s grave. He died in a fatal accident earlier this year; he was just eighteen. I spent a few moments with her, offering a few words of empathy, yet feeling more inadequate than I have ever felt. How can I possibly understand — let alone comfort — a woman who has lost the child she once held to her breast?

As I walked on, the encounter stayed with me and sent my thoughts along a different path. I noticed the objects people leave on graves: golf balls, figurines, baby photos, small toys. I suppose it’s all about identity; the need to say, this is who they were. That’s why favourite music is so often played at funerals. Earlier this year, someone left a comment on my blog saying that two Runrig songs were to be played at his funeral.

I once read about an ancient grave discovered on a building site in the Czech Republic. A man lay buried there, and beside him was a puppet on a string. I often think about him and how he must have brought joy and laughter to children and adults alike, even if only for a short time in this challenging life. And I wonder: what would identify me?

When I was doing my MA in writing, a tutor once asked us to write about something that reflected our identity. For me, it was my writer’s notebook. It’s where I write about my feelings toward being human; the deepest way anyone will ever see into my soul. What you’re reading now is part of that. Like the man with the puppet on a string, I too try to entertain — though in an existential way — by focusing on what is positive and good about human nature. And I suppose, if you’re reading this, you’re walking with me on that path.

But my thoughts return to that woman sitting alone at her son’s grave. What comfort is there for her? I have lost loved ones, but I know that offering hope to someone whose wound is still fresh, especially the loss of a child,  rarely helps. They don’t want promises of future healing; they want comfort now.

The best thing, I think, is to invite the memories that still bring joy. Ask gentle questions: “What was your son like?” “What was his happiest moment as a child?” “What did you give him for his last birthday?” “What was his favourite toy?” “Was he kind?” Let the grieving parent linger in those precious memories.

“Do not be amazed at this, for the hour is coming when all who are in their graves will hear His voice.”
                                                           — John 5

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