7. Blake #2
Pride filled my chest as I gazed at Travis’s grave.
Two years after he died, I had a brick firehouse built over his grave.
It was my version of his little clubhouse.
My boy would have loved fire engines, in my mind.
The company that we contracted to build the firehouse took so much care in the architectural integrity.
My son’s grave was featured on the local news after it was completed.
After it aired, one of the local Build-A-Bear stores came out and placed bears that were dressed in fire uniforms. They even had on custom hats with his name on them.
A local toy store brought other things like a fire engine and a kid’s fire jacket.
So much love outpoured. Like I said, there were many people who knew the story of the little boy laid to rest in the firehouse. They just didn’t connect it to me.
I watched Scotty inspect the grave in awe. He touched things and picked up other things. “Aye, boy. I know you don’t know me, but I’m ya pop. Keep watching over your mama up there. I got her down here, son.”
My tears were so damn disrespectful. They just fell at this point whenever they felt like it.
He stood in front of Travis’s grave for another moment before I walked to him.
I linked my arm through his. “Travis, hi. I know it’s been a long time, but I needed to get my heart together.
I miss you so much. I showed your daddy your room yesterday. ”
I knew that a lot of people would find this interaction weird, but I didn’t care. This was how I grieved my son. I knew his physical body wasn’t here, but he was in my heart. That was enough for me to acknowledge his presence.
“How did you get the idea to do this? I would have never thought to do this,” Scotty said. I understood that because apparently, no one else would have in the area. That was why it was such a big deal.
I thought about Little Nadine. “In Lanett, Alabama, there was a little four-year-old girl named Nadine Earles. This was in 1933. Well, a few days before Christmas, she died from diphtheria that worsened due to pneumonia. Her father, Julian, was building her a dollhouse for Christmas.” I glanced at Scotty.
“All little girls want a dollhouse,” I said with a chuckle.
Scotty chuckled as well. “Just like all little boys want to be a firefighter at some point. Even if it’s for a day.”
My father chuckled. “Right, because I know I did when I was a kid.”
My parents knew this story well. They never got tired of hearing it. I believe it brought us all peace.
“Well, she died December 18th, 1933. Naturally, her father was devastated, but he still wanted to keep his promise to his little girl. He tore down the dollhouse in the backyard that he was building. Instead, he built a mausoleum that was a child-sized dollhouse over her grave. It’s in Oakwood Cemetery there.
Randomly, one day in my grief, about a year after Travis’s death, I came across an article about it. I had to see it.
“Me and Mama traveled there to see it. It was so beautiful, Scotty.
I mean the little house had a walkway that led to the front porch, a mailbox, and it was brick.
You could tell that her father built it with love.
He poured himself into every detail of it for his baby girl.
Her grave is inside of the house, and there are dolls, toys, a tea set, and things like that inside.
“When my mama and me went to visit the grave, I knew. I knew that I wanted to do that for my son. I wanted to honor his memory in a tangible way like Nadine’s father did.”
“Wow! That’s amazing,” Scotty said. “Who takes care of it? I assume her parents are dead and gone.”
I nodded. “They are. They are actually buried in the yard of the house. There is a memorial group that takes care of it now, and the city also. People go there and leave toys and gifts. When we went, there were groups of people out there. The historian told us that back in the day, on her birthday, families brought their children to have a birthday party for her.”
Scotty lifted his arm, wrapped it around my shoulders, then pulled me close to him. My eyes closed at the feel of his lips on my temple. I loved when he did that. “You did good, Mommy. Real good.”
I didn’t need his validation, but it felt good to hear it.
This whole thing was a part of my fear when I thought about entertaining a relationship.
I thought whoever I was with would think I didn’t know how to let go or that I was weird.
It wasn’t like I came out here and slept at the grave or some shit.
I honored my son with the work that I did for my clients.
I tried to replicate the love and excitement I felt when I was pregnant.
I couldn’t wait to meet my boy. Unfortunately, a bitch boy took that opportunity away from me.
In every mother and father that I worked with, I tried to give them that excitement since I wasn’t able to fully live mine out.
It was alright, though. Something told me I would have another chance.