The Story of Regret

The Story of Regret
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Years ago, I was in north central Massachusetts for a weekend in the fall. It was peak foliage viewing time, and anyone who has had the opportunity to see the beauty of the trees drenched with jewel-like color and landscapes carpeted with the same lush tones, well...they know what I mean. Cool and crisp air, laced with smells of leaves burning somewhere in the distance, it was a perfect New England weekend.

I woke up Sunday morning before dawn, restless, so I grabbed my camera and decided to take a walk before breakfast. I wanted to take some pictures of the old Bed & Breakfast where I was lodging before the other guests started milling around with the same idea, and I wanted to walk some of the old country roads nearby.

I walked for about half an hour, turning on a dirt road that led me into a more wooded area, criss-crossed with old stone walls. It was just about the time I decided to turn back, when I noticed an old graveyard to my left. Surrounded by tumbling walls and trees filtering light over the slate headstones, it was a photographer's dream. I entered and walked around, taking pictures and I became hypnotized by the old headstones and carvings, the words inscribed that often hinted that there was much more than met the eyes in the silence of these graves.

One thing that became clear quickly was that most had died within a couple of weeks of each other in the late 1700's, and very many of the graves were children. As I walked and read, it became fairly clear that some disease had overrun the community. It was not unusual for diseases that we prevent with simple vaccinations to decimate entire villages during those times. Whatever this disease was, it seemed to have killed more children than adults. I continued deeper into the cemetery and came upon two stones wth six small graves nearby. The taller headstones were of a couple that had survived the deaths of their six children. The sadness of the six small graves was enhanced by a verse on their mother's grave that spoke of her lifelong sorrow at losing her children, one by one, day after day, of some cruel "plague." This mother and father had lived many years after their children's lives were taken.

I was moved to tears thinking of the stories that the mute stones told, and by the sorrow of a mother that still echoed around me, so many years after her tragedy had happened. Finally I moved on.

A few feet away I noticed two more graves marked with the same last name. It was a continuation of the story. These were also children born to the same couple. The first was a girl, born a few years after the other six had died. The name given to her was "Regret." It was in a way even sadder than the others. Why was she a "regret?" Was her mother so broken by loss that she couldn't believe this child would survive? A hundred questions were in my mind.

Regret lived to be 85 yeas old. Next to her was the grave of her brother William, who was born a couple of years later, and he also had lived into his eighties. I often wonder if their sad mother ever regretted the name she gave her daughter, as she watched her grow and thrive. What I really hope though is that, like me...was she able to smile after all those tears?