I Wish I Could Help Her

I saw a woman at the cemetery, a young mother, clearing grass away from a small stone. It was beautifully decorated with faux flowers and butterflies, almost enough lights to see it from space.  My heart broke for this mama, as I watched her wipe the tears from her face. I wanted to hug her, to tell her that it surely couldn't have been her fault.  I see her there every day it seems, cleaning and arranging, always tears, always humming lullabies. I want to tell her that I know she didn't choose for this to happen, that if she had known she wouldn't have allowed it. I want to tell her that we all worry about our kids, and that not every worry is a "sign", sometimes it's just paranoia and it's not her fault that she brushed this time off as paranoia when it was clearly something more. She couldn't have known. I feel so helpless watching her, knowing that I can't fix it, that no one can help her.  I wish that I could take the pain away. I wish that I could give her back her sweet baby, or even offer another hobby than being out there day after day as if it's going to bring her back. She lays down on the grass, slightly to the right side, as if not to lay on top of the baby. I watch her whole body start to shake with sobs, as has happened many times before.   I wish this wasn't her life. I wish that she didn't have to know this pain, that her living child didn't have to watch it, that her family was still whole.

But this is her life. And it hurts every day. And I can't fix it.

So I get up off the grass, fluff back up where i've laid, dry my eyes like every day before, and leave my reflection to her reflecting.