Words, for the first time today, seem to fail me.
I feel numb, and inadequate, I feel some pain.
When your Grandfathers carried you up the aisle in your little white box,
A tiny white moth flew past me, past your Mum and Dad up the parallel aisle.
My Mum always told me that when you see a small white feather falling it means that an angel is watching.
I saw one yesterday.
I believe in signs.
I believe you were there today little Sam, by your parents' side.
Perhaps in a place we cant see, but linked by these signs.
As I breathed out the Lord's Prayer (because on days like these I find it hard to make a sound) my words played before me from my lips like silver smoke spiralling in the cold Church air.
My tears burned my cheeks against my cold skin, and I wondered if you feel the cold.
I watched your mother cry. My B, my first ever friend; the one who I grew up with from the day I was born. I couldn't make it better this time. I can't.
When I held her by the grave side I realised how much I had missed her, and for a moment we were back at the start, and she was holding me like she used to when I had fallen, or when I was hurt, or crying over something broken.
This time I was soothing her, she had fallen and she was hurting and she had lost something broken.
I was filling her empty arms and I wondered if she was wishing I were you.
I told her I was proud of her, and she apologised for making me cry.
I wanted to tell her I loved her. I found it hard to speak. I couldn't.
I picked two Snowdrops. One, I kissed, and put in your grave, the crisp white matching your tiny coffin.
The other sits on my bedside.
I guess I somehow want them to be connected.
I somehow don't want this to be real, I don't want it to be real that as I am writing this the earth has fallen in on you and you are truly out of reach. You don't deserve to be gone.
When your Daddy carried you out in your little white box, my heart broke and the tears wouldn't stop.
I don't want to talk, I don't want to eat, or sleep.
I want you to have lived longer than your short eight hours so you can bring back your parents' smiles.
You could have brought them so much more love and happiness and joy, you could have done this so effortlessly; mend them, the way I want to but can't. It's too hard for me. I'm not right.
I wish you were able to smile.
Perhaps you are, right now, somewhere as people drink to your name.
Just like somebody read today;
Although you never breathed our air,
Or looked into our eyes,
That doesn't mean you never were;
An angel never dies.


This is for Beccie, Owen, Matte, Jo, Steve, Sarah, The Dunkleys, The Phillips and everyone who loved you.

It's times like these that remind me why I used to pray.