The Chair

I had a unique experience, one that I never thought would be recreated.  My son's friend had a beautiful, quiet, strong mother who died of cancer.  She wasn't very old and left three small sons.  My heart ached as I watched the youngest one bury his head into his father's neck as he walked in the funeral procession into the chapel.  Tears instantly sprang into my eyes as I looked into what his future might behold. 

I had Savannah with me along with my son.  It was hard enough going to the funeral, but I had been to this place before.  I had my own bittersweet tears here.  I had come back for the first time to the place where I got to hold my precious baby again. 

Savannah was hungry and I knew I needed to find a place to feed her.  Did I dare go back to that sacred room where I held my sweet baby for the last time, with my arms now full with a warm, breathing baby? 

I took courage and went to the office determined not to cry (ahem, I know I was a little delusional).  Tears came anyway, as I explained my situation.  "May I please sit in the room where I once held my daughter.  Would you mind?" 

"Which room was it?" the man asked.

"I would recognize it by sight," was my reply. 

I walked down the hall, immediately recognizing the room.  All the furniture was the same.  All the details didn't seem any different, and yet there was something different.  A certain glow was missing from the room.  The anticipation of seeing my baby again wasn't there.  The feeling that I had just entered a sacred, heavenly place was no longer there.  It was just a room.

A weird mixture of emotion welled up inside as I struggled to keep Savannah happy enough just so I could breathe in the room again. 

And then I saw the chair.  The chair where I once held my baby, with a smile on my lips.  With a constant desire to want to warm up her frozen skin.  In that chair, I cradled, I whispered, I rocked, I cried. 

I then sat in the chair with my hungry, needy baby and I cradled, I whispered, I rocked, and I cried.