Nothing is worse than an infant-sized casket. They come in frog-green and cotton candy-blue and bubble gum-pink and sunshine-yellow and fire engine-red.
Babies aren't supposed to die. They're small, soft, and young. But most of all, innocent.
Blondes always look strange at funerals. They, of course, don't mean to. But they can't help it. Brightly colored hair like that against an ocean of blackness and grief . . . well, it stands out.
Like hers does.
But again, she doesn't mean to stand out—in fact, she is more engulfed by the blackness, the grief than anyone else.
She is bent at the waist, sobbing. Her head-to-toe black clothing disguises the baby weight she hadn't yet had the chance to shed.
It happened that soon.
A man with a scraggly beard holds her as she weeps. He too wants to cry, but he won't let himself.
He has to be strong for her.
She's usually not like this. She doesn't let anything get to her. She is strong. She does not need to be saved.
But her world has come to an end.
A strong hand lands on her shoulder. "Amanda," its owner says. "It's time to go to the cemetery."
She chokes back tears and wipes her nose and eyes, then nods at the older woman who has come to comfort her. Her child is alive. For a moment, Amanda can't help but feel jealousy, and then guilt for having thought like that.
She would never want anyone to experience what she's experiencing.