Where do babies go when they die? and...

Where do babies go when they die?

Do they blow away upon the wind, a whispered hush?

 Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Where do babies go when they die?

Do they wander among us, ethereally,

a spirit guide, a ghost of time?

Where do babies go when they die?

Do they swirl around us, the fluttering sigh

Of the trembled wanderings of a butterfly?

Oh sweet baby why did you die?

Life could have made you anything, anything at all.

Oh sweet baby why did you die

Why did you choose to be a butterfly?

The flag project is hung, and people can see it in the mall.  I have had a multitude of hugs and thanks and commendations on my strength of character.  I’m not sure I deserve them.  I did it for her.  It’s selfish.  I did it because I wanted to be close her.  One of the girls at work mentioned a flag that she saw a picture of that moved her.  I knew the name of the baby on the one she’d described.  It’s as though each of those beautiful flags is mine.  I’ve held them, and photographed them (some many times until I took one I was happy with) and trimmed them up, cleaned them and loved each one.  I’ve thrown myself into the project with the force of an addict going through with-drawl, or like a starving man at a small portion of food. 

Then, Monday, I had a meltdown.  Perhaps it was because I was tired, or because I was just somehow ill prepared for life that day, but I cried all the way to work until my eyes were red and puffy.  My students hugged me and told me they were sad that I was sad, but that they understood.  At the end of this year I will have been their teacher for three years, so many of them are so sweet.  I will miss them when I don’t have them anymore.  How does one not get attached after three years?  All the way to the ceremony that evening at Acacia park I’d cried, With my hand on the box of flags, I’d felt as though I was driving with angels, and I think I was.  In the chapel, basked in candlelight for angel babies, I bowed my head and wept.  It was not fair that I should be there and yet I was, and with so many others who shouldn’t be there either and were.  Then, as if to say, we see you and we know, as the ceremony came to an end, and everyone blew out their candles the flags that had been hung on the wall behind the pulpit fell to the floor.  Nearly the whole chain of flags fell without warning just as the speaker got to the opposite end of the chapel, and there was a collective shocked sigh from the people in attendance.  I gathered the flags after, talking with some of the amazing people I’d met since I’d started this whole project.  But I still feel as though I don’t deserve the recognition, nor the gratitude. 

Then came Tuesday, and in three hours, a wonderful cousin, two women from WNYPBN and I had the cases together at the mall.  Just as I finished cleaning up the first case and turned from it, I was nearly knocked windless by a powerful feeling of déjà vu.  My heart raced.  I don’t know what déjà vu is, but if it’s because I’d actually been there before in some other life, then why do I find myself there again?  I can’t have ever been there before, so unless somehow I had seen the future before why would I experience it?  Since the flags are up and locked in a case, I feel somehow quiet inside.  Hurt still, but quiet. I wonder what that means.  My motive was to love her and be close to her, in holding these flags, and loving these babies, babies that are with her in heaven, have I then done anything to be thanked for?  I’ve only loved these angel babies and held their stories in my hand and heart to love her harder and closer.  Is that deserving of your gratitude and honoring, I’m just not so sure.