It was a Boy

In the graveyard right next to our house

Where my brother and I used to walk,

There was a tiny, baby grave.

The smallest of all the rectangles.

We didn't know the baby--

He barely had a name--

But we knew the family.

His mother's name was Ingjerd--

Such a beautiful, and foreign name.

A name that always reminded me of how far they had traveled

And how far from home their baby was buried.

We used to walk by the grave,

read the name

and make up a plausible story about how he had died.

This is the real story:

He was premature and couldn't breathe.

Our clinic only had a hand pump to help.

A nurse had to be there 24 hours a day to pump air for the baby by hand.

One pump too hard and the lung popped.

Nobody laid blame.

Then came preparations for the funeral.

Ingjerd asked my mother to sew the lining for the casket.

It was an honor.

The local store sold select fabrics—a small collection.

And no other store was close enough,

so my mother swallowed her frustration and bought the best she could.

"Green apples," she told me when I was older,

"it looked like a cheap wall covering for a teacher."

But it was the only child-like pattern.

So she sewed it—with as much love as she could muster to try to make it better.

In tears, she presented the lining to Ingjerd,

"I'm so sorry," she said, "this is the best I could do."

In tears, Ingjerd took the lining and my mother.

"Don't be sorry," she said, "Where I come from, green means hope."