The little stones were tired.
\nThey had names,
\nbut their inscriptions were almost gone.
\nStorm after storm had almost
\nerased them.
\nMicrobial action joined
\nin the concerted action of time
\nto bury their identities
\nto alter the persistence of grief.
\nTake away their memories.<\/p>\n
I did not realize at first
\nthat they were children\u2019s graves.
\nAnd then I deciphered a stone
\nbefore a tiny plot,
\nlike a vanishing face
\ntrying to say their names.
\nTwo children, a brother and sister,
\ntogether in the same earth.
\nThey were three and six years old,
\ndied in the same week
\nof some unknown pestilence.
\nBy the mission erected to the
\nBlessed Mother.<\/p>\n
My heart failed.
\nI wept inside.
\nDid their parents bury them?
\nHad they perished, doomed like them?
\nAfter a century and a half
\ncould I hide from this?
\nI wanted them back.
\nI wanted them alive,
\nhere and now,
\nnot because I was angry,
\nnot because they were greater
\nthan the cosmos that failed them,
\nbut because no reality
\nthat harbored beauty should
\nhave this happen.<\/p>\n
A crime without a perpetrator
\nhad been committed.
\nThe plaster figurine inside the mission
\nwas a helpless wish,
\nand nothing was redeemed.
\nThere is nothing I could do
\nin this self-same world to help
\nthese babies,
\nwho passed away,
\nwere put in each others arms and
\nrelieved from their suffering
\nby the Good Shepherd of Death.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
The little stones were tired. They had names, but their inscriptions were almost gone. Storm after storm had almost erased them. Microbial action joined in…<\/p>\n