I have always fancied myself a woman of words and humor. Both were stripped from me today. For there is nothing funny about the funeral of a child. I babbled like a string-pull doll -- the only words that rattled around in my head, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry." But I had tears. Oh, plenty of those.

Somehow my heart grew bigger when I gave birth to my first son. Suddenly, I thought of someone else constantly. I tended to his needs with very little concern for my own. And I found a love that I could not imagine. Improbably, my heart grew bigger still when I added two more sons to my brood. And I found even more love. Immense love. I guess I grew a mother's heart.

The look of grief in that child's mother's eyes was so deep, so complete, it was nearly palatable. Perhaps it was the taste of despair that stole away my words? I turned, as I often do, to my books. Auden and Dickinson both wrote of grief, so I read. And in reading I am finding my words again. But I think it will be a long while before I find my laugh.

Coffins are not for children. Coffins are for "old people". People who have lived and lived. And lived some more. For people who have realized some dreams and had some dashed. For people who have had broken hearts and hearts full of joy. For those who have felt the blush of first love, the pride of a college degree, the responsibility of house payments. For those who have seen eventide in Venice, or learned to say "Please give me one beer" in Taiwanese, or fallen asleep on a beach. For those who have adopted a kitten, gotten lost in a cornfield in northwest Iowa, seen a Broadway show from center orchestra seats. For those who have heard Dizzy Gillespie blow "A Night In Tunisia" on the horn and felt every brassy note burn into their soul. For those who have perhaps held a baby of their own in their arms. For those who have had the gift of many years. Death is for them. Not for a child.

And as a mother, I cannot begin to comprehend the grief of losing a child. How much bigger can a mother's heart grow to hold a sadness that deep? When that mother cried, I cried with her. My mother's heart breaking right beside hers.

I came home today in my tear-stained sweater, my voice gravelly with the sadness I swallowed. And I kissed my children. My sweet, young boys. And I thanked a God I stopped believing in long ago for blessing me with the miracle of these fragile lives. For allowing me to grow my very own mother's heart.