Cut Short
No parent should outlive their child; that's all that I can think as I stand in the cemetery, over a grave.
It's freezing, pouring down, but I can't leave this place. I'm numb, I can't move. I never thought this day would come, I prayed it wouldn't.
Today I buried my child.
Forty-five years old, a life cut short.
I took my symbiote to extend my life, for my kids, for my grandkids. What a long time ago that seems now. I didn't really realise all an extended life means is that you'll outlive everyone you care about. Stupid, huh? But I looked in to Sammie's eyes and I had to. For her. I did this for her.
She's here beside me, her husbands arms wrapped tight around her, her long coat clinging to her enlarged stomach.
I feel a tug at my knee, and I look down to see an angel. I pick her up and hold her close, still staring at the grave.
"Laurel," the husband says, stepping forward to take her from me, but I shake my head. Looking at my beautiful granddaughter, away from the grave, I turn and begin to walk.
"Goodbye Marc," I hear Samantha say before she links arms with her guy and follows behind me. I hear teary goodbyes from Michael and Katie, and they follow too.
I buried my son, my eldest child today. And I never really did make things right. I tried, but it was always tough for me to show him how I felt. I hope he knew that I truly did love him, and hope he and Monica find peace.
We walk in silence back to the car now, and I steal the occasional glance at my daughter, my pride and joy, my beautiful Samantha Faye. She reminds me so much of her mother, bless her heart.
Her husband takes his daughter from me, and and puts her in to her carseat, kissing her on the head and then standing up straight and looking at me and the kids. He stands, arms out, and Michael and Katie run in to his arms, crying and holding on to him for dear life.
He's a good man, my daughter's husband. I knew that as soon as I met him, and the love he had for her was obvious. He and Sam have little Laurel Hope, age 2, and another, Luke William, on the wayand he's taking in Marc's children, embracing them, comforting them, treating them as if they were his own.
"Sam, Jacob, do you need some time?" He asks, once all three children – or teenagers, Michael is getting older now – are loaded in to the minivan.
"Thanks, Jack," I say. "But no, I'm ready." I turn to face the graveyard and whisper. "Goodbye, son."