The boy we never knew

Even in winter, when the snow stacks up in hard, mulish mounds, footprints lead to that one particular gravesite.


We see the prints. We walk this route regularly. In winter, it's a desolate place. Only a few souls visit, taking gingerly steps in the wicked wind. In the fair-weather days of today, by virtue of the fact this graveyard is a rare piece of flat land in a hilly region, this acreage becomes the de facto village park.


This is where seniors walk laps around the perimeter; local history buffs rub gravestones and search out family names; and parents engage in that seminal activity of teaching their children to ride bicycles.


But back to that grave site. His name was Eric. He died from leukemia on Nov. 28, 2004, before his fourth birthday. We didn't know him. We don't know his family. ...





We've never seen them. Everything we know of him -- and them -- has been learned through deduction. It's impossible not to ponder.


It's been nearly six years since his death. At Christmas, a small evergreen is placed by his grave. Red ribbons and ornaments are carefully tied to its branches. On Easter, a stuffed bunny and some decorated eggs appear.


I've never been able to walk by this boy's grave without holding my boy's hand a little tighter.


After the boy's burial, a homemade wooden box with Plexiglas soon appeared at his grave. It serves as a shrine. It was painted white. It was stenciled with lettering that reads, "Eric, Play Nice With Jesus."


This boy's loved ones were helpless to protect him from illness, but they're making darn sure they protect their memory of him, the traces of his short life on Earth and the evidence of their love. In the box they placed what must have been his favorite toys: a Sponge Bob Square Pants doll, some Hot Wheels, a Scooby Doo sticker. New toys and other objects are occasionally added.

The box includes a framed photo, too -- of the boy in diapers, with happy eyes that probably never failed to calm the tattered nerves of those who reached to hold him and those who sought to save him. And a smile -- one that speaks of mischief, of love, one that seemed to insist "All is well!" even when the evidence must have so painfully pointed otherwise.


The photo seems so stunningly out of place here, whether in January or July, in this graveyard of memorials whose edges have been smoothed by time. On his gravestone the hard edges remain, less a memorial of a life lived than a marker of the raw emotion left behind.


A child shouldn't die. It makes no sense. This photo should be in a family album at home, on a coffee table, in a warm den. You should be able to turn the page and see another photo of the boy, slightly older, blowing out four candles on a birthday cake with his buddies looking on, followed by another photo of him learning to ride a bicycle in this de facto village park, pedaling out of reach and breaking free.


I walk this graveyard with my son. We throw snowballs in winter. In fair weather, we scramble upon our favorite boulder in a stand of trees and pretend we're riding an Apatosaurus.


As we head back home, we usually pass the boy's grave. Often I cannot help but to think of my own brother and the silent suffering he endures after the death of his 2-year-old boy a few years ago. I know those pediatric wards where the mystery of suffering takes place. I've seen the family members, worn and rattled, sitting at bedsides. Through the pressure of illness and the heat of grief, it's as if their whole worlds condense and crystallize to the size of a hospital room -- their encampment, their nightmare.


I know that otherworldly feeling of stepping back outside, how in comparison to sick children, everything -- the shoving of traffic, the commotion of commerce -- seems trifling, even tactless.


I'm drawn to ponder this boy's grave because of the virtues it confirms. He was clearly born of love. He was clearly received in the joy in the sacrament of life and in the gift of children. He was surely received in the pain in wondering how such innocence will fare in this world.


It's a reality check, this boy's grave -- that life is fragile, that these days are a gift, that in a world dizzy being busy, love is the only thing worth anything. And once you experience this, you realize you don't want to live without it.


To gaze upon this grave is a privilege, because in a sick child, in a child that dies -- in their meekness, their dignity, their trust, their suffering -- we get a glimpse of the eternal.