He was only a few weeks old when Death came to call. It was November of 1963; his parents lived in Savannah and chose to bury him in a local cemetery.  Time passed, their lives changed, and work necessitated a move south.  Although they were hundreds of miles away from their son, he was never far from their thoughts.

When her husband died she intended to bring him to Savannah, to reunite him with their son, but the other children pleaded with her. Not so far away.  Not where we can’t easily visit his grave.  So she found a suitable cemetery in what was now home and buried him there, a decision that meant her child was still alone.

But it didn’t have to be that way, and after giving it some thought and asking enough questions, she realized they could still be reunited, if not where her son was then in the cemetery chosen for her husband. So the paperwork was done, the appropriate permits obtained, and on a beautiful Monday morning, his grave was opened and his casket and vault carefully removed.  Entrusted to the care and safekeeping of one of the funeral directors, he was transported to his new home where another funeral director had seen to it that a place was prepared to receive his remains.  And as they all stood and reverently watched, his tiny casket and vault were lowered into the earth next to his father . . . and his mother grasped the hand of the funeral director and wept.

It had been almost 53 years, but there was still grief at the loss and still a need to have her family together. The thought of her child so far away and alone was one that deprived her of sleep and instilled a yearning in her heart that could not be satisfied any other way.  Death, no matter how distant, can still bring sorrow and, in this instance, joy at a family reunited.  And the tears she shed at his grave that day were tears of both.

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