A: He's got my number.

After the spring showers resided and the sun soaked up the excess water that flooded most of the surrounding areas, I bribed Caleb into his carseat (yeah, you’ve never done that before, right?) and went to visit the cemetery. I’ve learned through previous travelogue commentary that when I announce to Caleb “We are going to go see Emma” I need to omit the Emma and substitute your sister. Because if I don’t, Caleb will resound with a stream of Emmy’s (Em-me! Em-me! Em-me! Em-me! Em-me! Em-me!... and so on) until the next distraction comes along. (Emmy is a friend, she is about a month and half older than Caleb. Simply, she is Vada to his Thomas J.)
Since Emma’s defect was discovered early on that gave us time to prepare. I’ve mentioned before how family history comforted us during that experience, but I never mentioned how it equipped us to make the arrangements for the foreseeable burial of our infant daughter. I’ve been in my fair-share of cemeteries to document grave markers and record their inscriptions as well as for my plain leisure.
Let it be known that Mike and I want to be buried in Saint George. That’s the plan. Burying our infant there however would prove to be costly and, frankly, a hassle. Heaven forbid, if it was Caleb it would be a different story, but hey, that was not the case.
After a spiritual prompting we researched some neglected branches of Michael’s family tree. His roots run deep in Massachusetts and Rhode Island. Among his ancestors are forefathers and founders of various New England towns including Northampton, Sandwich, Ellisville, and Providence, Rhode Island. A Mayflower passenger and a cast of family members that once resided and served as selectmen in Sharon, Mendon and around-and-about Norfolk county round out his pedigree.
It brought peace to a, what others may contrive as shallow, detail. Our second child wouldn’t be buried in a random place. It was the land of their ancestors. The land harrowed by family. Now, just to find a cemetery.
That’s where my many hours logged among graves came in handy.
Some of the prospective cemeteries I visited were poorly laid out. Some were cluttered. I couldn’t even locate the infant section in one. Many lacked organization. Others had narrow roads, were difficult access or were next to a highway.
If I hadn’t spent so much time extracting information from tombstones, I wouldn’t have noticed these features.
Remember when I blogged about our town’s cemetery? After an exhausted search I recalled my immediate impressions of our local burial ground. It would be perfect.

Leaping forward to last week as we made a stopover to Emma’s site, my visit had a purpose. Around December, at the onset of our mild winter, the dust began to settle. Literally. The soil that shrouded Emma’s grave sank. This is pretty typical, just so you know.
Because the infant section is situated bytheway, I don’t have to make a formal visit. I can do drive-by glances. Other times this is convenient because I can just leave Caleb in the 4Runner while I pay a visit which is good because Caleb likes to tinker with the toy tributes that neighbor Emma’s marker.
I was planning on a quick drive-by glance to see if her plot had been filled in with additional dirt and grass seed yet.

As it so happened it had been. And also

the bush adjoining her grave had bloomed. I paused the vehicle and sat idle. Caleb stared too.
I had never seen the shrub come into flower before, Emma’s funeral was on the Eve of Halloween. It had been what-seemed-like a long winter. I guess I prematurely assumed the bush’s barrenness was enduring, not seasonal. Hmph. Perspective.
The blossoming was a token, a reminder of the Abrahamic covenant for me. Not the Abrahamic convenient, as I hope for at times, but a two-way promise with a god who has numbered His posterity, no matter how numerous.

Tomorrow will be brought to you by the Letter B.