• “Mama!” Mama!” my son cried out to me, sprinting from over the green grassy hills towards our cottage on the side of the road. I glanced at him, then at the gray skies. It was to rain soon.
    “Mama! Come quick!” he managed to say in all of his panic. I felt the seeds of fear in his eyes sprout within me.
    “Jacob, what’s wrong?” I asked.
    “Mama,” he gasped between pants looking up at me with such frightened eyes “Mama, it’s Tommy! Mama, Tommy.” He glanced at the gravel before our front doorstep, me in the doorway.
    “What’s wrong, honey?”
    “He…” Jacob stared at the ground, afraid of saying anything. He looked up at me, his eyes watery with tears. “He got hit by a buggy on the road out over the hill over yonder,” he whispered, pointing out into the distance. He looked down for a moment, both of us speechless, then our eyes met once more.
    “The town doctor happened to be nearby…he looked at Tommy and told me he’s…” he stopped, tears streaming down his face. “Mama, Tommy’s.…Tommy’s dead, Mama.”
    I felt a chill flow through me, down my spine, hitting my eyes, making them water. I didn’t know what to do. After a long while, I spoke.
    “Show me, Jacob.”
    He looked up at me once more, his young and innocent eyes red and wet with tears. I wiped his eyes and asked him once more to show me where his older brother lay. Jacob took my hand with his small hands and pulled me as he ran, taking me away from our house and over the hills.
    Saddened images of my deceased son ran through my head. I couldn’t grasp the idea: My son, Tommy. My oldest son, the one who was always there to brighten up a room in the darkest of days. Eleven. Only eleven.
    I just…couldn’t fight the tears. I was trying to hide them for the sake of Jacob, but I just couldn’t.
    We made it over the second, then the third hill, reached the dirt road, and there he lay. Tommy. I walked up to him and stroked his face, now cold. I kneeled beside him, hoping this was just a joke. Just a little prank he and his brother had pulled. But I knew this was real. I knew the red puddle his body lay in was blood. His blood. Tommy.
    It seemed like an eternity kneeling beside my deceased son, his younger brother nearby absorbed in his own sadness for the loss of his older sibling. The buggy that had hit him was a few feet away, horseless. No one was inside, and no one was nearby. It was just me and my two sons there. We were there for a long time until the sky too began to cry, softly at first, then heavier.
    I lifted myself slowly off of the ground.
    “Jacob, help me lift your brother,” I asked of Jacob. He nodded to show that he understood, and then helped Tommy over my shoulder, how I carried him home: draped over my shoulder as if a lifeless sack of potatoes. My son, Tommy, my now lifeless son, was dead.
    I took Tommy inside the house and laid him on his bed. After giving a wet and shivering Jacob a warm bath, I bathed myself, noticing me being drenched in my son’s blood.
    Tommy. Dead.
    I cleaned Tommy up, washing the blood off, stopping to wipe my eyes every once in a while. I found his nicest clothes and dressed him in them, then calling to ask about his funeral arrangements. I couldn’t believe it. I never thought I’d ever have to do this. Tommy. Dead.
    ***
    It’s been a few months now, my son, Tommy, dead. Life is not as it once was, and with just Jacob and me, home alone, the cottage has been a very dreary place. I miss him so, my Tommy. He’s gone now, but I know no one who knew him will ever forget his everlasting smile. Tommy, my son, is dead.