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Snow Out of Season

By Christy Brunke

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The casket was small.
Only our three-year-old twins clinging to my legs kept me from breaking open the steel casket and taking back my baby Lily.
Scottish bagpipes played “Amazing Grace” accompanied by whimpers.
Friends and family tossed Stargazer lilies onto Lily’s grave and walked back to their lives. Back to their homes. Back to their children.
An empty crib awaited Wade and me.
I buried my nose in the white flower and inhaled the sweet-scented petals, soft as Lily’s skin. A sob escaped, giving way to a barrage of salty tears.
Thunder blasted a warning just before the heavens poured.
Wade, his strong hand gripping mine, turned to go.
No. I dug my heels in. I won’t leave her.
A swan gliding across the cemetery lake paused to let her little ones climb aboard and then secured them beneath her wings.
I wrapped my arms around Katy and Daniel to shelter them. If only I could shield them from the pain. Awaken Lily. Erase the loss from Wade’s red eyes.
But my arms weren’t big enough.
I sent Wade and the twins to the car and turned back to the grave.
A cemetery worker cranked a metal handle that lowered Lily into the pit. Rain drummed the coffin as he shoveled earth on top of her. Every thud screamed “Never.”
I’d never hold her again, her warm cheek pressed to mine.
Never win another slobbery kiss.
Never feel her little hand wrapped around my finger.
Never hear her belly laugh tickling my heart.
Tombstones reeled around me, and lightning slashed the sky. I staggered backwards and crumpled into the mud.
Wade ran back and knelt beside me, enveloping me in his arms. We wept together, our tears blending with the rain.
The cemetery worker threw the last heap of dirt over Lily, nodded at us, and hurried on his way.
I glanced back at our minivan—the only car still parked by the gravesite.
“Don’t worry about the kids,” Wade said, reading my thoughts. “I sent them home with my parents.” He rose and pulled me up with him.
With one last glance at the ground that held our daughter, we trudged back to our car and the infant seat without an infant.
Wade swallowed hard. “I’ll . . .” He cleared his throat and choked out, “I’ll take that out tomorrow.”
I gazed out the window, but the storm blurred my view. Wade had always said he wanted a big family. And maybe he still did. But I couldn’t kiss another baby good-bye when she’d just begun to live.

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