Before I was 9 years old, my mother had suffered miscarriages two and three months into her pregnancies. But when I was 9, she nearly died giving birth to my baby brother.
He lived, he breathed, and he was named Eddy Burl Jones after my grandpa Eddy and my other grandpa, Burl Jones.
He died when he was only 4 days old. I went with my grandpa Eddy to the funeral home to have Eddy Burl’s little body cremated. His ashes were scattered. I cried and cried when I lost him. He wasn’t a fertilized egg or a fetus. He was my brother who lived and died.
I am 79 years old, and even though I never got to hold him or look into his sweet, little face, he is as real to me as the day my dad said to me, “Honey, you have a baby brother.”
Lee Jones Berquist