When the Unspeakable Happens
My nephew Hank was born when I was twelve years old — 67 years ago. He was my sister’s first baby, and I got to visit and hold him at three weeks. He was such a big baby, but it was the first time I ever held a little guy like him.
He died the following week.
The family was devastated and forbid me from going to his funeral because of my age.
I never understood why he died — no one spoke of him again. The family buried him and his memory along with his tiny little soul.
Piecing together the story
My mother had been helping my sister during the first few weeks of his birth, and so when little Hank had a seizure, my mother urged my sister and her husband to rush him to the doctor’s. He died in an exam room in that office while my sister and her husband waited in the reception area. She wasn’t even with her baby when he passed. It’s just such a heartbreaking story, and I’m telling it now.
For the past year, Hank has asked me to write his story so his memory lives. We are not Jewish, but in their tradition, they say, “may his memory before a blessing.”
I’ll never forget holding him, loving him, and touching his soft, delicate skin. But I’ll always be haunted by the fact that he was never talked about again by my family, and we never knew what caused his sudden death.
Keeping a Secret
All the years of having a relationship with my sister and we never spoke about him. I didn’t know how to ask the questions; it was too painful for her to relive.
But a few things did happen regarding Hank’s having been on this earth. My mom, as she got older, would relive his death after she would have a cocktail. Only certain family members heard the story, but the trauma of having experienced his death never left her — it haunted her. And every time she would start talking about him, my niece and I would wish she wouldn’t — it was such a painful family memory. We never stopped her from speaking, and it was always the same story, repeatedly.
One year, as I was riding with my other niece through the town where my sister and her husband had first lived, she turned to me and asked, “would you like to visit the baby’s grave”?
I looked at her and said, “there’s a grave”?
Forty-four years later, I visited his grave — Henry Francis Smith, Jr., born 6/8/1957 — died 7/8/1957. There he was. I was able to tell him how sorry I was that he left at such a young age and that for all these years, I carried him in my heart, sealed away in silence.
I also found out that my sister and her children would visit Hank’s grave each year and place flowers to honor him.
No one ever told me. I just never knew.
I hope that somehow, my story can inspire others to talk about a family member who has left unexpectedly and cherish their memories forever.
