🌿Eternal Love

Mystic, CT

Through all the turmoil and all the pain… the rose stayed.

A story of remembering that love is eternal.

I always hesitate before sharing pieces like — not because I fear judgment, but because grief is sacred, and I never want to overwhelm someone who is already hurting.

But one thing I’ve learned is that when we speak from the inside of grief, we offer connection.

Not solutions.

Not answers.

Just the simple reminder that none of us walk this road alone.

Losing a child changes the world into something unrecognizable.

Grief doesn’t shape everyone the same way. I understand why it hardens some people, and why it closes the heart — I feel that way myself sometimes.

But for me, when I’m able to allow myself to feel the hurt — when I’m ready, when I feel safe enough to go into it — the tears become a release.

It’s uncomfortable, and it feels like it’s never going to end, but somehow that feeling creates space inside me… a deeper understanding I didn’t have before.

I share this part of Elijah’s story — part of my story — in the hope that it touches someone who needs to feel understood, comforted, or simply seen.

This is the journey of choosing my son’s resting place,

and the unexpected signs — like the rose that stayed —

that continue to remind me that love is eternal.

When you lose a child, the world doesn’t just break —

it becomes unrecognizable.

There is no language for this pain.

There is love… and the ache of living without him.

After Elijah died, I kept his ashes with me from April 26th, 2023 until July 28th, 2025.

For more than two years, he was physically in my home, on my mantel, close to me.

🌸 Choosing His Resting Place

I knew I needed to create a beautiful space for him —

not just for myself, but for everyone who loved him.

A peaceful, spiritual place where people could come, sit, breathe, and be with him.

My friend Christine had driven through the cemetery with me early on, before anything was official.

I remember thinking, This feels right. This is where he should be.

When it was finally time to make arrangements, my three sisters came with me —

supporting me, holding me up, helping me in ways only sisters can.

Together we walked the grounds.

It was winter then — the trees bare, the air still and cold —

but I could already imagine the beauty that spring and summer would bring.

The cemetery itself is very old, with gravestones dating as far back as the late 1700s.

Standing there, surrounded by centuries of history, I felt a presence —

a sense that this land had held countless stories of love and loss long before mine.

I knew I wanted Elijah near the water, but I also wanted him in the ground, not in a mausoleum.

I wanted him to have his own space —

a place that felt like his,

with room for the engraved bench I had envisioned.

The caretaker told me he had three open spots near the water:

C4, C5, and C6.

I didn’t know which to choose.

As we walked through the rows, one of my sisters suddenly called out:

“Marcia, come here.”

She pointed to a gravestone.

It said Baker —

the name of my youngest grandson, Elijah’s nephew.

It’s not a name you see often, and the moment I saw it, something in me clicked.

Elijah loved being an uncle. He loved his nephews — the bond he shared with them was so deep and so real.

Seeing that name felt like a sign, a reminder of the love he had for those boys.

A connection only Elijah could have sent.

In that moment, I knew.

My heart knew.

God knew.

Elijah’s place was directly behind that stone.

C4.

The sign was unmistakable.

That was where my son would rest.

🪨 Creating His Space

The bench took time —

time to design, time to craft, time to arrive.

My sisters came with me to the memorial company as we chose the stone.

We sat for a long time looking at different styles, sizes, shapes.

I was intentional about every detail:

the thickness of the base,

the structure of the bench,

the feel of it,

the way it would look against the landscape.

Every cemetery I had ever known — including where my own parents are buried — was a place you stood.

You walked up to the gravestone, said your prayers or your thoughts, and then you left.

But I knew I wanted something different for Elijah.

I wanted a place where people could sit with him.

Not just visit — sit.

A place to pause.

To breathe.

To remember.

To reflect on whatever they needed to reflect on —

whether that was a memory of him,

a moment of connection,

or simply sitting in the quiet beside him.

And I also wanted a place where I could sit with him —

where I could stay.

Because standing and leaving never felt like enough for my heart.

I needed somewhere I could settle, somewhere I could be close to him,

somewhere I didn’t feel rushed to move on or walk away.

Yes, he is ashes now, but his body is still there, held by the earth.

And I wanted the space to honor that —

to invite people not just to look at a stone,

but to spend a moment with him.

I needed that for myself, too.

That’s why the bench mattered so much.

And right on top, engraved in the stone,

I asked for a hawk —

a symbol that has come to mean Elijah’s presence,

his spirit,

his way of still watching over us.

Everything about his resting place was crafted with love.

🌙 The Night Before

The week leading up to the burial was incredibly emotional.

Even though I had chosen the place, even though I knew it was right,

I didn’t want to bury him.

I didn’t want that finality.

Part of me still wanted him here with me, where he had been for more than two years.

As the day approached, the emotions became heavier, sharper, harder to hold.

It felt like another loss — another letting go I wasn’t ready for.

There were moments when all I wanted to do was cancel the service,

to stop everything,

to hold on just a little longer.

My heart wasn’t ready, even though the calendar said it was time.

The night before the burial service,

I opened Elijah’s urn.

It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

Nothing about it was simple or calm.

My hands were shaking, and my heart felt like it was breaking all over again.

But I knew I needed to place something inside —

something from our life together.

I put in a photo of me and him —

a picture taken from the Chuck E. Cheese photo booth.

Just the two of us.

My arm wrapped around him.

He was little.

He was happy.

And I remember that day so vividly.

I also placed a few small white feathers inside.

And as strange as it sounds…

placing that photo inside brought me comfort.

It made me feel like he wasn’t going into the ground alone.

Like a part of me —

a moment when he was safe in my arms —

would stay with him forever.

It didn’t take the pain away.

It didn’t make it easier.

But it gave me something to hold onto

as I took the next step

that no mother should ever have to take.

🌤️ The Day of the Burial

We held the service on July 28th, 2025.

It was private, intimate, and sacred.

The day was absolutely gorgeous.

There was a softness to the air, a quiet beauty that held us.

As I stood there, I realized something I had felt all along:

I needed Elijah to have a home.

My other children have homes — places where I can visit, sit with them, talk with them.

And I needed a place where I could visit him too.

A place that belonged to him.

A place where I could go and be close to my son.

The service itself was gentle and heartfelt,

meaningful in all the ways I needed it to be.

There were a few words spoken in Elijah’s honor —

simple, loving, and true.

I spoke as well.

Christine played the crystal harp,

and its sound carried through the space like a blessing —

light, calming, almost otherworldly.

Afterward, we shared a small luncheon together,

surrounded by love and memories,

creating a sense of grounding on a day that felt both heavy and holy.

In my heart, I knew I had created a resting place for him

that was peaceful, beautiful, and worthy of who he was.

🍂 The Blanket of Leaves

As I was visiting with Elijah this past Sunday — something I do every week —

the wind was unbelievably strong.

Branches were scattered all over the ground.

There were white caps on the water.

The kind of wind that makes you pull your blanket tighter around you —

the same blanket I keep in my car for when I sit with him.

Every week, I bring fresh flowers —

different kinds, depending on the day, the season, or what feels right.

And the last time I was there,

I had left a single red rose right in front of his resting place,

just in front of the bench.

With the wind whipping the leaves in every direction,

I honestly didn’t expect anything to still be where I left it.

But when I looked down,

the rose was still there —

resting beneath a soft, natural blanket of fallen leaves.

The leaves had blown everywhere,

wild and chaotic,

yet somehow they gathered themselves gently over the rose.

It looked… tender.

Protective.

Like nature was holding it in place.

I took a picture —

like I always do when I visit him.

The seasons change, the flowers change,

and since I can’t take new pictures with him,

I take pictures for him.

For us.

Every week.

At the time, I didn’t think too deeply about it.

I just knew it struck something in me,

so I captured the moment.

It wasn’t until last night,

looking back at the photo,

that I realized the depth of it.

Through all that wind,

through all that force and movement,

the rose stayed.

And as I sat with that picture,

I felt the quiet truth of it:

Even in the chaos, something beautiful can remain.

Even in the storm, love stays.

And this, I think, is part of how love becomes eternal.

Elijah is in everything I create —

in my stories, my art, my Drops of Nectar.

His love continues through me,

in ways that are gentle but unmistakable.

The love is eternal.

May your heart always be warmed,

knowing — and feeling —

that your love is eternal.