It just dawned on me that Easter – one of the older myths/stories/belief of this day (Easter) – that Jesus died for our sins and rose again, is one of the most widespread stories about child loss.
I was just listening to a program on CBC about the later years of Mary’s (Jesus’ virgin mother) life, and how she went in to exile, and grew bitter and angry over the years, thinking of her son’s death. Two of Jesus’ friends stayed with her as her constant companions, and they wrote about her process.
Henry’s only been dead six months, but I can relate. I’m often grumpy and in a bad mood, and was in a self-imposed exile from the world for a few months.
Of course what we don’t have in common is the way our sons died, nor the popularity and mythology surrounding our children, or the public mockery and torture her son endured. But Mary is often referred to as the mother of us all (parallell between her and the Earth!), and I feel that even more thanks to Henry, with any religious fibre I have left in my body (just a few wisps and strands, but they’re there).
She’s not the patron saint of child loss (there’s a few saints whose names are associated with child loss, and it’s beyond my expertise and googling patience to find out who), but she’s a damn good candidate.