The navy shipped the body of my first born son home to our friendly neighborhood undertaker on a 4th of July weekend.
A numbness covered me as I just agreed to whatever his assistant suggested we do for a wake service that he would direct and take care of the details before I halted him at wanting to have an open casket because there were no marking on my son’s face from his car accident that took his life on a rainy Wednesday night.
Oh, no, I was not ready to face the fact that my son would no longer be calling me with his adventurous stories or sending me a birthday card and mother’s day card as he always did along with a sweet note to make it personal.
I figured I would take it slow and easy in accepting that fact because there was no rush now was there.
His pea coat hung on the trim around my living room doorway where I could see it and pass it several times a day for months on end, driving the stakes of memory into my heart, but the final irritation that drove me near crazy was his watch laying on the roll top desk with the band broken, my son’s head broken but the damn thing kept running.
How does that happen?