I don’t know how to remember my son. I know how other parents memorialize their dead offspring. But I am confused for myself. There are no real maps or guidelines that work for me. Perhaps, if I could make sense of his death, it would be easier. But I am no closer to that than I was when he died. The shock and numbness are gone, but not the pain,
“I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” the stranger said as she handed me back whatever papers I had just shown her. She had a name tag but I couldn’t read it because I was too busy trying not to cry. If I had a dollar every time I have heard that phrase in the month since my oldest son died, I could have paid for his funeral and still had
Two of my regular readers have noticed my absence from these pages and wonder what’s going on. The answer is that I lost one of my three faithful readers. For any writer that is bad. The fact that the reader was my oldest son makes the loss a tragedy beyond comprehension. The death of my son Christopher is a blow I cannot begin to describe. But as writer, I must
