In this dry, dusty, sticker-filled place, my sons body has turned to bone and dust in that little wooden box we approved. We buried him in a warm little suit, even though it was late August, because we knew the snow would be heavy and somehow just couldn't bear the thought of him lying there cold and alone. As crazy as I knew it was, I wanted to stay out there with him. Taking those first steps away from his coffin on the day of his funeral, was one of the hardest things I have ever done.
Part of me is still out there with him.
I reconstructed a life, not because I wanted to, but because I looked at my then four year old daughter, and knew that I had to. For her. At first it was all pretend, but I have gotten better at it over the years. I am mostly okay. But there are still moments when I will catch myself watching a little boy and wondering if Dylan would be like that now. That part of it never goes away.
Dylan wound up with two headstones. Both were carved by his Great Grandmother. The first stone just says "Dylan" and that sat on his grave for a few months. She eventually carved a second stone which included his last name and the day he died. When the second stone was taken out to Tumalo, we wound up taking the first stone home. It has since been moved from apartment to apartment and currently sits near our front door. I suppose it is an odd looking thing to have, but we were at a loss as to what to do with it. So it sits in our little garden area. A stone reminder of a little boy who never got a chance to fly a kite or to count the stars with us.
