Thirteen years

Yesterday it was thirteen years since Paul died. I have a lot of trouble getting my arms around that. We’ve indeed moved on and learned to live without him, but that day when we found his dead body still seems like yesterday. I remember every detail. But, then, how could I forget?

A last photo

As usual, we went to the cemetery. Grass had grown over his gravestone, so we tore it away to have room to place the little smooth stones each of us brought. 

But yesterday it was so hot, and the sun so bright, I couldn’t stay long. As has been happening with my sun allergy lately, my back began itching so badly I had to leave. 

I wrote this little piece yesterday at my writing group meeting. I decided to attend even though this was a day of remembrance. I find I do better with a place to go or something to do. It helps. But, then of course I wrote about Paul and visiting his gravesite. The prompt was:

Heat

We stood over Paul’s gravestone this morning and left smooth black stones to mark thirteen years since his death. The heat of full sun poured down and through my light shirt, and after just a few minutes I had to leave. I couldn’t stand it. I told Bob, “I hate this place,” and his response – probably hopeful that he wouldn’t have to bring me there anymore – was, “Why do we come?” But today’s reaction was because of the heat, the blinding sun, and being in a place even my dead son doesn’t belong.