For Sale, Baby Shoes, Never Worn.

So my nephew flew all the way to Norway to finally meet his infant son and take part in the preparations for his upcoming christening.

He wore a black suit as he waited for his father and grandfather to take him to the airport. I remember thinking black was a rather severe color - one more suited for a pallbearer than a joyful new father on a journey to a white land, for an event filled with the innocence of baptismal lace and a future of hopeful promises.




This morning he and his girlfriend woke up to find that their baby - the latest bid for our DNA's immortality, third in line to my father's throne, and my grand-nephew - was dead.




So now the preparations for the christening will be ones for a funeral.


No parent should ever have to bury their child, and no parent as young as my nephew should ever have to drink from this most bitter of cups. Few things break a heart as hardened as mine, but his incoherent sobbing over a midnight call just threw into stark relief just how much he himself is but a boy. I wanted to reach my arms over the thousands of miles separating us and hug him tight.

But all I could do was listen to his grief and offer few words of consolation. After all, at times like this, words are often empty. What do you say? What can you say?


Despite our family's disapproval and my personal misgivings , I would've wanted to meet you, little one. And over the years, hear news of how you've grown. And, if we were going to go by the potency of our line thus far, to witness the birth of your own sons.


And now all that shall never come to pass.




Grand-nephew, goodnight.


Goodbye and godspeed.