By JEFF KOLOZE
This is not how it’s supposed to be.
Granpa should be crying for joy at your birth,
not convulsed with grief at your death.
This is not how it’s supposed to be.
Granpa should be staring at you
wrapped in a soft, warm blanket,
not staring, void of thoughts,
at a blanket of snow covering a frozen yard.
This is not how it’s supposed to be.
Granpa should be changing your diapers,
not always aware that I will never
see you again here on earth.
Love for Margaret testifies to
love for God which trumps
anger against God. Those stupid people
who are angry at God. Why?
What did God, the author of life, do
to destroy life, His creation?
Margaret, beloved granddaughter, His creation,
cherished, loved, whose fragility we caress,
Margaret, so much wanted, so loved.
This is not how it’s supposed to be.
Granma calls to say there’s some bad news.
Granpa thinks the worst can only be
you have a disability, but
what’s wrong with that? We love you, even more.
“The baby’s dead” precipitates
a quiet house hearing a quick prayer:
“Little baby [for we did not yet know your name],
we wanted you here”;
a stunned drive to her house;
a grandfather’s tears falling to meet the snow;
a grandfather embracing his daughter,
carrying the body of a granddaughter;
a grandfather sobbing, unable to contain the sobs;
breaking the grasp with our daughter,
convulsed to the point of bowed over;
an embrace of the beloved son-in-law;
more tears, more sobs, sheer uncontrolled wailing;
another breaking the grasp, to the window,
trying to control, but I can’t,
so more sobbing; “I can’t — ” breathe
was what I wanted to say but couldn’t,
bowed down again in grief.
And then the silence, the stupor,
the loss of interest in what the grandkids see.
In the silence, in the grief, an inner voice:
“I love you, Margaret,
granddaughter, bambinetta.”
Holy Family, comfort us.
Saint Joseph, man of our earth,
you who sobbed wildly on seeing
the beloved Boy entrusted to you
(can’t write the word) and then dead,
console Margaret’s proud papa . . . and help me.
Virgin Mary, woman of our earth and our heaven,
you who were there at His death and life,
comfort Margaret’s mother and return her to joy.
Child Jesus, stretch your hand to Margaret
and say to her, “Come, beloved sister; play
in a Heaven prepared for you for all eternity.”
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