Every Sunday without fail, Catherine Henner drove
twenty-five miles to Hatfield Cemetery. With a jam jar of garden
flowers, Catherine found the headstone marked “Heath” and the stone
carved angel.
Placing the flowers at the base, Catherine
would pause to pray for this nameless baby buried beneath. Then
Catherine would walk over the grassy graves back to her car.
Catherine had done this for years.
One day, another lady introduced herself as Betty, and asked about her weekly trips, as she herself made Sunday
pilgrimages to her mother’s grave and had seen Catherine. “Is this
little one from your family?”
Catherine pondered the question. “Yes, I guess she is.” Seeing Betty’s perplexed expression, Catherine explained.
“When my grandmother was dying, she told me
about this tiny grave here in Hatfield, of her first-born baby girl who
lived only an hour. She made me promise to visit this grave every
Sunday.”
“So sad when a baby dies. Your Grandmother
Heath must have loved this little girl very much.” Eleanor called
after Catherine as she walked away.
Catherine stopped and turned around.
“Heath was her maiden name. We never knew about this baby she had
when she was fourteen, after she was raped by a cousin.” Catherine
sighed. “Yes, it is sad.”
Sorry to take such a dark turn here.
This was something I was told about long ago, about something that happened
before I was born. A mother never forgets her baby, no matter what.
