retrospective

We went to the cemtery today. Had my sisters lived, they would have been 37 and 32. There's no headstone there, and nothing to show they lived or died.

The first was buried on November 11, 1968, the second on August 4, 1972. I don't when they died. I only remember mum being pregnant once, when I six years old. When I was eighteen, I found the deed for a burial plot in amongst some paperwork of my own. Until that day, I never knew my sister had been named Christina. I'd never known I had two sisters, that the elder had even existed and that her name was Alessandra, and it was years after that day, that I ever told mum and dad that I knew.

Both girls had died shortly after birth as a complication of mum's Rh negative blood not being compatible with theirs. These days a vaccine exists for that condition so it's no longer life threatening.

I remember being at a family friend's house the night Christina was born, and I remember dad coming over later. I remember thinking that something was wrong because dad's eyes were red, and I remember him telling me everything was okay. The next thing I remember is being at nan and pop's. Dad came over again and nan and pop both left the room. Dad held us both, one on each knee, and with tears in his eyes, told us the baby had died (and even though it was years agoi, and even though I was so young, I'm crying writing this) I think he said the baby was too small because I remember asking dad if the baby was as big as Thumbelina (a newborn doll I had that cried when you pulled the string in its beli butone region. I loved that doll, by the way) and dad saying yes, she was.

Mum came home with no belly and no baby. She went to bed and she cried a lot, even though she and dad never spoke of why.

That's how it was in those days. My parents buried their dead children and pretended they'd never existed. They pretended they hadn't had their hearts ripped out and their souls destroyed. They held their heads up and they pretended they were okay.

Years and years later there was a show on tv called 'Twenty Good Years' (man, what a memory for minor details I've got) and on it, the family's young daughter had died. During the scene with the funeral, dad broke down and sobbed. I went and hid in my room and dad dried his eyes. Once again, he never said a word about why he'd cried like his heart was breaking.

I know that mum never went to the funerals, that dad went alone, stood alone, was alone, and that he buried them alone. I don't think though, that he ever said goodbye. Dad's wish was to be buried with them, which is why when he died in Italy, his ashes were brought home. That's yet to be done, and I have no idea where his ashes have been for the last thirteen years.

My heart aches as I write this, for the pain my dad felt then, and for the pain my mother still feels now, and because now there is Daniel, I feel their pain even more.

******

Today, I finafuckingly got the paperwork required to transfer the license from my father to me, as I'm the youngest family member who doesn't involuntarily crap their pants. With that done, (the license transferring, not the pants crapping) we bees can finafuckingly put up a headstone, not to commemorate their death, but to honour their lives. We could even bury dad as he wanted to be buried - with his girls, for all of eternity.