I visit my son’s grave every Tuesday. He was 22. Motorcycle. A drunk driver crossed the median. For 7 years, someone leaves fresh flowers before I arrive. White carnations. Every Tuesday. No card. I started coming earlier. 7 AM. Already there. 6 AM. Already there. Last week. 5:30 AM. Headlights off. I waited.
“You’re just like your father,” I said, my voice rising over the rattle of the kitchen sink. It was a Thursday night, and I was so tired my eyes burned. My …
I visit my son’s grave every Tuesday. He was 22. Motorcycle. A drunk driver crossed the median. For 7 years, someone leaves fresh flowers before I arrive. White carnations. Every Tuesday. No card. I started coming earlier. 7 AM. Already there. 6 AM. Already there. Last week. 5:30 AM. Headlights off. I waited. Read More