Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Something Good
Here Lieth Caleb Crabbe
Caleb was my brother. He was young, frail, sickly. But he was a fighter. He lived long past when the doctor said he would. The doctor said he wouldn't last two weeks. Caleb lived to be two years old. Long past when he shoulda died.
Mama couldn't believe he died. She held onto him, not letting him go for hours. Screamin', cryin', sobbin'. Nothing could make her let go, not even my sisters' crying. My pa tried to take him, but she kept holding on. He was her baby boy. Her sweet, kind, wonderful baby boy.
When the undertaker came, my sisters cried. They were scared of the man who was taking their brother. They hid, while my ma and pa stood in the front room, still, strong, and silent. I stood with them, my ma squeezin' my hand. They put little Caleb in the coffin made with cedar, and nailed it shut. I went and got my sisters, and we walked out the door. They put him in a coffin, and we solemnly trudged through the mud behind it all the way to the cemetery.
It was cold when we buried him. Cold and windy. The ground was cold. The trees were cold. The coffin was cold. We laid him in the ground, said a prayer, and covered him with dirt. The soil pounded against his coffin, over and over. And incessant knocking, almost as if he was banging on the wood, trying to get out. When the hole was filled, we set flowers on his grave and went home.
Years later, when we buried my mother and my stillborn sister, I visited my brother's grave. The grass was over grown, no longer the neat grave it used to be. The headstone was worn out, the epitaph faded. But I still remembered the words. Here Lieth Caleb Crabbe.
Mama couldn't believe he died. She held onto him, not letting him go for hours. Screamin', cryin', sobbin'. Nothing could make her let go, not even my sisters' crying. My pa tried to take him, but she kept holding on. He was her baby boy. Her sweet, kind, wonderful baby boy.
When the undertaker came, my sisters cried. They were scared of the man who was taking their brother. They hid, while my ma and pa stood in the front room, still, strong, and silent. I stood with them, my ma squeezin' my hand. They put little Caleb in the coffin made with cedar, and nailed it shut. I went and got my sisters, and we walked out the door. They put him in a coffin, and we solemnly trudged through the mud behind it all the way to the cemetery.
It was cold when we buried him. Cold and windy. The ground was cold. The trees were cold. The coffin was cold. We laid him in the ground, said a prayer, and covered him with dirt. The soil pounded against his coffin, over and over. And incessant knocking, almost as if he was banging on the wood, trying to get out. When the hole was filled, we set flowers on his grave and went home.
Years later, when we buried my mother and my stillborn sister, I visited my brother's grave. The grass was over grown, no longer the neat grave it used to be. The headstone was worn out, the epitaph faded. But I still remembered the words. Here Lieth Caleb Crabbe.