From my memoir:
“Woodville is the only cemetery Dad and I work in with a section just for babies. It’s not marked as such with a sign or archway. No arrows point you there. But you know. You know by the sudden pattern of flat, tiny markers that break the landscape of knee-high granite tombstones. You know by pinwheels blurring whirls of primary colors in the wind. You know by the lamb statues that anchor a corner of a stone. You know by toys left there, teddy bears and dolls and cars. You know by balloons tethered to wooden posts stuck in the ground. The markers of a couple of dozen babies lie here, filtering in and around a few bigger gravestones of adults that form a sort of protectorate, ersatz aunts and uncles and grandparents who keep watch.”
This one gets me. The mother had a baby boy in August, who died that day. The mother must have become pregnant again almost right away, for the next child was born in June. It, too, died on the day it was born.
I look at the baby graves and see the parents.