Peter, Rick’s dad, saw us off as we left their place this morning.
“We’ll be thinking of you over these next two days,” he said, his voice full of love and compassion.
It warmed my heart as I watched him embrace Rick – an action that spoke even louder than his words. I was reminded of their similarity as father and son, and of the precious closeness that they shared.
We stopped off at the cafe close to the Memorial Gardens to buy coffee. I remembered the last time I was there, six months ago to the day, and how anxious I had been.
Like last time, I ordered two lattes.
Unlike last time, I did not feel scared.
Merely resigned. And tired. And somewhat numb.
Next door to the cafe was the florist.
Today, it took me even longer than usual to make my selection.
As always, I wanted something cheerful. The gerberas immediately caught my attention, yet I had already bought gerberas last time. I considered the roses, but something held me back – maybe because we had roses at our wedding. I liked the native flowers but it worried me that they would blend too much into the background.
And so I stood there for countless, long minutes as the florist watched me from behind the counter.
I was certain she felt that I was taking a disproportionately long time to make a somewhat small decision. Yet the decision was impossibly big for me.
This was one of the few things I could still do for Cameron. I wanted to get it right. I needed to get it right.
I settled on a pre-arranged bouquet of orange tulips and yellow gerberas. They were vibrant and full of life. I studied them closely in the car as they lay on my lap, and I decided I was happy with my choice. They were beautiful.
A funeral was just finishing as we arrived. People filtered into the car park and cars began leaving as we pulled in. The sky was overcast as we stepped out, with a few rare rays of sunshine seeping through the clouds.
The Memorial Gardens were by now quite familiar to us. As we walked over together to Cameron’s spot, I felt like we were heading towards our regular family picnic area.
There was no fear, no anxiety, no dread, no panic.
In fact, it hit me how much I wanted to ‘see’ Cameron again.
I wanted to see his plaque again. I wanted to read the words we’d inscribed. I wanted to be close to the place where his remains lay.
I wanted to be close to my son.
Rick was disappointed that Cameron’s rose bush was the smallest one in the row. But as he knelt down to study it more carefully, he noticed that there was a small bud at the end of one of the branches. Finally – there was life!
While Rick took Angus for a quick stroll to help him settle down, I set down my coffee and took the chance to take photos of the flowers lying next to Cameron’s plaque.
My heart weighed heavily as I did so.
It was still hard for me to reconcile the sweet memory of Cameron in my arms to this somewhat lonely spot in the Memorial Gardens.
My precious little man, God took you away so early…
Angus was much happier after the stroll. We gave him some food, and he sat contently in the pram munching away while he entertained us with an unexpected, lengthy monologue. Despite the occasion, Rick and I found ourselves laughing heartily at Angus’ sudden burst of talkativeness. We were so blessed to have him.
I was nervous and apprehensive about my parents’ arrival. I was glad they wanted to come, yet I didn’t want them to make the day about Angus. I needed the day to be about Cameron. And I needed them to acknowledge this.
But as soon as I saw them approaching, it dawned on me that their mere presence – their mere desire to want to be there with us – was their way of remembering Cameron with us.
Whether or not they said anything to us in words was irrelevant: they were here, on the second anniversary of Cameron’s death, at the Memorial Gardens with us. They were remembering Cameron with us.
They had even brought flowers.
We stayed for another half an hour or so. I sat on the tarpaulin as I watched my parents play with Angus and help him walk about. I watched also as Rick poured water from his bottle over Cameron’s plaque to wash the dirt off. I walked around and took photos of everyone.
If only Cameron was here, I thought.
But even as I thought that, I knew that if he had been there with us, we would not have been there at all. We would have been elsewhere, celebrating his second birthday.
Towards the end, Rick and I stood side by side looking down at Cameron’s plaque.
With our arms around each other, we gazed silently at our son’s permanent resting place. There were no words for us to express how much we missed him and how much we wished for him to be there with us and our growing family.
I asked Rick to pray, and as he led us in a heartfelt prayer, my tears finally broke out. We had already poured forth our grief the night before, as we lay on the sofa bed in Peter and Mary’s guest room. Those tears had been uncontrollable, propelled by our searing pain. Standing beside Cameron’s resting place, the tears were of pure sadness and loss.
Before we left, Rick and mum unwrapped the flowers. I arranged them as best as I could around Cameron’s plaque. I asked dad to take photos for us and he was more than happy to oblige.
I held Angus in my arms for a few moments before we put him back in the pram.
“Say ‘bye bye’ to your ger ger*,” I whispered in his ear.
As we walked away, I felt strangely peaceful.
The solemnity of our visit was not lost on me, yet in that moment I was quietly confident that God would continue to sustain us in our journey as He had done so the past two years.
My mind flashed forward to the future, and I saw us returning there over the years with our growing family.
It would be our family’s special place.
A place for remembering Cameron.
A place for celebrating his life, and a place for mourning his death.
A place for shedding our tears and expressing our grief.
A place for reminding our children that they have an older brother in heaven.
A place for praising God for eternal rest.
*Chinese for ‘older brother’