After crying over Avalon’s grave, I walked around looking at the other graves nearby. I was surprised to find, in the very nearby vicinity, three other babies’ gravestones with only one date. I memorized their names and wondered if I’d ever see their mothers coming there to remember them. I feel a closeness to these strangers that I can’t explain.
Then my seasonal neighbors were home, and I stopped by to say hi and show off Jo Jo. I told them that the garden being built was a memorial garden for my stillborn daughter. They told me they lost a son at 37 weeks. We all remarked on how invisible stillbirth is, how no one ever talks about it, and you never imagine it happening to anyone around you, let alone to yourself, until after. Then suddenly you meet people, you share your own story, and you realize that it’s so much more common than you ever knew.
Angela, Amy Jo, and Gavin… I remember you along with Avalon tonight.
Mother of All Things 
My daughters are in the infant area of the cemetery we chose. Row after row of infants. Every time I visit, there is a fresh grave (about once a month). I hate it, but at the same time feel comfort knowing there are other babies surrounding them.
Angela. Amy Jo. Gavin.
Avalon. Always Avalon.
It is so silent, these losses. After we lost our baby, we learned our neighbor lost his baby to SIDS. My husband has lived across the street from them for 12 years. We never knew. Then, as you said, you have your own loss and realize that it’s so much more common than you could ever imgine.