sitting where you last sat

Dear Alex,

It’s a Sunday morning in August. I’ve walked to the place and now I’m sitting where you last sat, sitting where you lay. I haven’t come here in awhile, but when I do, I come early in the day. I’m wearing one of your flannel shirts with the sleeves rolled up– the plaid that’s hunter green, cream, and turquoise. It’s nearing 70 degrees so I may need to take it off.

Southland Drive is not quiet. There’s quite a bit of traffic already. I thought it would be quiet because it’s not even 7:00 in the morning. The sun is up, and I can hear birds in the distance. Closer are crows talking to each other. There’s even an orchestra of crickets that isn’t very loud.

why did you leave us?

It seems wrong that you’re gone. I try not to think about heaven or hell.

Mary, Jackson, and I are going to Virginia Beach next month. I’m looking forward to the ocean. I’m hoping for a little healing from this thing called grief. You were supposed to be going with us, babe. Supposed to be here. Why did you leave this life?

We finally ordered your gravestone marker. Your sister went with your dad and I. I had wanted to write on it:

beloved son, brother, friend

But it’s only going to say your name with the birthdate and death date. Bummer. However, we did get black granite similar to your sister’s grave. That’s what I had hoped for…it’s supposed to be ready in about 120 days which is mid-December, but I’m praying it’s ready before November 19. Just because. It’s just a thing that is hard, a thing that needs to be done. And I just want it done before Thanksgiving, before your baby nephew arrives, before a year has gone by since your death.

I’ve only been into the restaurant once since you died, then I walked right out. You weren’t in the corner on the frier like you always had been. There was a different guy standing there.

I haven’t been in to see the shirt on the wall that Randall framed. When your dad sent me the photos of it, the words really jarred me because that’s exactly what I had wanted to put on your gravestone.

love, mom