A Eulogy for My Son

Yesterday, I buried my unborn child, Charles Dominic.

In these latest days, I have often been Theoden at Theodred's tomb. Simbelmynë I have planted in my imagination, ever minding the loss of his brief and bright life.

This great-souled little one has gone from us almost as soon as his arrival. The fiery joys set and burst at his coming have been swallowed at our grasping like will-o'-the-wisps, leading me on to an empty place forlorn.

More than ever, I am alone in that I know and honor the dignity of his life like a child with a raggedy plush that no one wants. Only the child can see its worth. And who in this world will see his worth?

With the same conviction, I know that he is my son. We felt it, and we named him before we knew the Feast of St. Charles would soon follow his death. My first born too early born.

That he was too early for this world is clear. He wanted only one thing, and only one thing I taught him without knowing -- or myself and my ancestors taught him by striving. To seek God only. He learned too well for my weakness.

He has died after the fathers who made his death seem insignificant, and so he has died alone. Laid to rest alone, he sleeps in an open field beneath the stars and simbelmynë, who, like me, only mind him ever -- only we mind. Because the watchful flowers have covered his grave after and before his fathers. They are gone and cannot see him.



My son. Why?



Like you, purpose has come and gone like so much uncaring wind. It did not stay for a fortnight.

Dreadful purpose fulfilled in weeks, to send you where I am to -- I was to -- and would send you to again and again and call you back wanting you without wishing.

Tiny intercessor. Stronger than soldiers. Having suffered the greatest loss -- the loss of even a worthy and blessed trial, a worthy and blessed love of the earth. How could you have despised what you did not know?

Your brothers and sisters will not forget your name, nor your mystery, wisest of us. Love me, son. Please love me from where you are.

Wish me so much pain that the miracle of my empty hands may teach your siblings what I somehow, unknowing, taught you.

Oh my son.

Charles, do not rest while we waste in this vale of tears. You have gone to the house of my fathers. Let them make your spirit great for the wars. And do not forget your weary father. Be ever mindful -- with the fair bright eyes in the grass! -- and await the opening of the world for me.