My father's older brother, Uncle Bernie, died at 7 years old. According to his death certificate, he died of Lobar pneumonia.
At the time he died, his family was living in Brooklyn. However,
after his death, they moved to Albany where his parents were later buried. Uncle Bernie's death certificate indicated he was buried in Brooklyn, and I always felt weird that little Bernie was alone in the cemetery without his parents.
While growing up, I heard about the brother who died and how this tragedy caused my grandmother to be overprotective of my father, but I never knew the name of the boy. It wasn't until I started doing genealogy and found a New York census listing him that I learned his name was Bernard. After that, I vowed I would one day visit his grave, and years later I did. Happily, this little jaunt to Brooklyn was marked with good omens.
The section of Washington Cemetery where Uncle Bernie was laid to rest is a sprawling, overgrown mess. It is old and not maintained and doesn't have manicured lawns but shrubs and weeds that are difficult to walk through. I had my doubts I would find his plot as the rows of graves were disorderly and some areas weren't even marked or were without any headstones. Plus, I was concerned that the gravestone weathered so much that it would be impossible to read.
But in spite of getting lost a few times and tripping over wild brush, I carried on.
I arrived at the gates of the burial society that assisted my grandparents with their son's burial. I headed for the back row of the section. As I approached the grave, I noticed something quite astounding. In a hole in the fence behind the grave was a litter of several kittens playing. I knew immediately I was in the right place and dashed to get my cousin who had accompanied me on this adventure, but when we returned, the kittens were gone.
We hung out at Bernie's grave for a while. I didn't know what to do, so I just laid small rocks on his headstone. I left his grave feeling a sense of something unfinished.
As we were walking to another area of the cemetery, we happened upon an observant Jew, quite possibly a rabbi. He was dressed in Orthodox clothes: large black hat and long coat. He asked us if we would like for him to do a "Maleh" over a grave, a kind of favor one does for the deceased. I immediately said yes, and so we headed back to Bernie's grave.
My cousin and I stood there with this man before the grave as he chanted the Kel Maleh Rachamim. It was one of the most moving prayers I had ever heard and had an emotional tone I can't quite describe. I had my eyes closed, listening. Sometime during the chant I opened them and saw a little orange kitten peering through the hole in the fence. It was quite a moment, and I was thrilled.
After the prayer was finished, my cousin and I walked to another section of the cemetery. While we were walking we noticed baseballs lying all over the ground. Obviously they had been hit over the fence from the neighborhood baseball field, so I picked one up, went back to Bernie's grave, and laid it by the headstone.
I left that experience feeling complete. The chant had honored Bernie properly. And...well...the presence of baseballs and kittens, could there be any better tribute to a little boy?