We were at home over the weekend for CJay's 10-year high school reunion. It was fun, but in the midst of the festivities, we had to stop by the funeral home to pick out a marker for Isaac's grave. We haven't been home since the graveside service, so this was our first opportunity to meet with someone from the funeral home. Picking out the marker wasn't hard. It was strange but not difficult. I kept thinking about how we picked Isaac's name, and like so many other parents, we had practiced saying it and wondered how he might grow into it. And yet there we were, staring at his name on paper, confirming the spelling, explaining the meaning of Liam, and picking out fonts for his grave's marker. I'm sure this falls high on the list of things a person should never have to do.
On the way home, we stopped by the cemetery. It's a small family cemetery high above Watauga Lake. It's beautiful there. The oak trees are old, the grass a little too long. The breeze from the lake carries the voices of the people down below sitting in the sand. For some reason, the sounds of the children playing were musical. I loved looking down at them knowing they were living when my child couldn't. I felt vindicated, not envious. Children do live. They laugh and smile and enjoy life. I look forward to the day when l hear my children doing the same.
