Who Am I Going to the Grave For?

I ask myself this often.

When I visit my son's grave, place flowers down, tidy the space, or simply sit in silence — I wonder: Who am I really doing this for?

Is it for him? Or is it for me?

Am I being selfish, holding onto something physical, when I know deep down he isn't really there — not in the cold stone, not in the soil? Because in truth… my baby is in my heart. Every single day. Every breath I take, he’s there. In my thoughts, in my dreams, in my aching soul.

There’s no calendar reminder needed to think of him. I carry him with me in ways no one else can see. I imagine the person he could’ve become. I picture him growing, laughing, being cheeky, asking questions. I wonder who his friends might’ve been, what his voice would’ve sounded like, if he'd have loved football or hated school.

The grave — it's a place to focus the love, the grief, the memories that never got made. Maybe it's not for him exactly… maybe it’s for me. A place to say, You were here. You mattered. You still do.

And maybe that’s not selfish at all.

Maybe it’s what love does when it has nowhere else to go.

So yes, I go. I stand at the stone, and I talk to the air. I cry. I smile. I remember. Not because he’s there under the ground — but because he’s everywhere within me.

And going to the grave doesn’t make me weak. It doesn’t mean I’ve let go or held on too tightly. It simply means I’m a mother. Still his mum. Always will be.

And that love… it never dies.