The suited man at the table tells us there are options for this sort of thing. My daughter L holds a tissue, I poise my pen at the paper before me.
Burying a child is a delicate matter and the man’s words are quiet and slow. I ache inside as W’s eyes glance at the caskets—small, white, simple décor, as if they might hold a child’s christening dress. But this is not a christening. This is good bye.
W turns aside, avoiding the display like viewing a deep wound—there is too much pain, and please let a physician take care of this.But it must be done.The grief care counselor asks him, “Will you be carrying it as we proceed from the chapel to the graveside? We could have one of our staff do that for you.”The ache splinters my heart and I fear any sound from me will come out in sobs. It is just too much, but the question must be asked.
“I’m not sure,” W replies. “I’ll have to decide that day.”