"Our" Lady of Sorrows

                This was not the first time she had witnessed this, nor would it be her last; yet something moved within her, profoundly. True, so much time had passed between where she was now, and where she had been, that the pain had become a dull ache, but still she remembered. There had been so much blood that she had at first believed that it could not all have belonged to him, but as the grim reality of the situation donned on her, as she held her son’s pale, still cooling hand, she broke.

              
 She screamed.
              
                Everything had stopped and what was going on around her no longer mattered. She did not care that her husband was standing by her side, that her in-laws were but a few feet away or that her friends had gathered around her. There was only the pain, there was only her voice. Her cry split the very air through which it moved; a resonant wail that echoed into the valley floor, spread across the lake and into the sky above. The sound was suffocating, her moan became a roar.
                           
            She screamed.
               
Her body began to revolt against her, her eyes streamed as though her being had been up to this point, nothing but tears. Her throat burned, as if her lungs had become great furnaces and each piercing wail that escape her lips was a dagger, carving away as they passed. Her legs had long ago given out, and she felt as if she were rooted to the earth upon which her crumpled body had fallen in despair. Her fists had clenched to tightly that her nails had dug deep, torn through the worn flesh and her hands streamed nearly as much as her eyes.
                                  
                      She screamed.

                Men, women and children fell dead at the sound, cattle miscarried and many of the horses bolted from their camp in sheer terror at this otherworldy wailing, tumbling into the lake, mad with fear. The skies began to grow dark, the earth seemed to be slowly undulating under foot and the lake seemed to be growing more turbulent, frothing and bubbling in unison with this stricken mother. Those around her, who had been struck dumb by her cry, took notice and realized that if something was not done they would all perish.

                                        She screamed.

                He would never again speak to her, never again laugh or cry, never again be held in her embrace. Her tall, handsome and strong son had been laid low, felled in the prime of his youth; stolen from her. Stolen from her by whom she knew not. Stolen from her for no reason she could then understand. Stolen so recently that she could still hear his laughter echoing in her ears. Now, her once proud son, her most precious possession, was gone.
                                                             
                                                   She screamed.

                They looked around at one another, still paralyzed by the sheer force of her wail. The sky had gone from a deep black to a burning red. The sun appeared a sickly, misshapen disc and its warmth now seemed a mere memory. Her tears and her blood had begun to mingle with the rising waters of the lake, which was steadily approaching in small waves. They realized that if something were not done, if this uncanny shrieking was not stopped, they would all of them be no better off than her poor son. The fear of their impending doom spurred a fire in all of them, and the fetters which had frozen them in place shattered.
                                                                       
                                                                    She screamed.

                The pain was there, and her head was swimming from her strain, but it was staring to fade. Her voice began to crack, her lungs that had burned like a need fire was now burning out. Her body ached and her bosom heaved, the pain was being dowsed with the loss of sensation; numbness began to creep along her limbs. But she would not be stymied, and as her own guilt for failing to protect him welled within her chest, the pain redoubled and the flames roared back to life.
                                                                               
                                                                                 She screamed.

                They sprang upon her, shook her, struck her, cried out to her, only to be drowned out by her lamentations. Nothing they did was of any avail; no shouts could quiet her, no arms could hold her, not twenty of their strongest could move her. Her grief was weighing her down, as if she shared the same roots as the mountains. Realizing that no force could stop her, that no reason would reach her, they broke and fled for their lives.
                                                                                               She screamed.

Alone she was left, with no company but her poor, dead son, his head resting on her lap. The streams that had issued forth from her eyes had washed away the ichor that had caked his clothing, discoloured his gleaming hands and obscured his shining face. His wound, that had streamed with the same fury as his mothers tears, was so small it was hard to believe that it such a thing had killed her hale, boastful, splendid son. But he was still, he was quiet as no boy should be, and with her son in her arms, she finally relented.
                                                                                                                    She screamed.

Then all went dark, all sensation ceased and all that came after was quiet and silence. Her body was spent, her very soul a hairs breadth away from joining with that of her son, she collapsed. She dreamed of him then; of her bright, happy, joyous boy. She watched him leaping through the air as he dashed through the fields, climbing over hill and rock, and diving into the deepest of pools, a bundle of lightning in boys’ clothes. Then he stopped, he aged suddenly into a fine, handsome young man and he turned to look at her; he said something her ears did not hear and with a final wave of his hand, stepped through a sudden mist, and was gone.

After that, she remembered very little until long after he had been laid to rest. The pain she felt on that first, terrible day had eventually subsided. The pain became numbness, numbness became sadness, sadness became a deep grief, grief that gripped her heart as she had gripped the earth. Yet, little by little, the grip loosened on her heart. Light slowly flittered its way back into her life and while she would not, could not ever truly be whole again, she discovered that joy had stealthily creeped back into her life.

This was all so long ago, ages it seemed now. Much had happened before, and much had happened still after. Yet her she was again, surrounded by those with whom she shared a terrible kinship, for they like her, had also known the pain of death and loss. Yet, in the end, this made her stronger; strong enough even that she could now be a source of strength for those who needed her. For those to whom it seems as if time has stopped and life itself had come to an end, who ask how this could have happened and how do I go on?

For all of us who mourn, for all of us who grieve, for all who question why; she is there. She offers no easy answers, no platitudes, no quick fix. She cannot turn back the capricious nature of fortune, nor take away the pain of loss; she had no power over those claimed by death. Yet tall she stands, strong she remains, and a balm for the soul is her gift. She, above all others, understands the sorrow, knows full well the feeling and remembers the hurt.

In her compassion, may we find consolation.
In her wisdom, may we find meaning.
In her courage, may we find our own.

-Gorm