I’ve started going to the cemetery.
I want to tack on an “again” there, but that would be fibbing, since I almost never went there voluntarily from 2019 until about a few weeks ago. Christina will get all of us there on Colin’s birthday and major holidays like Christmas and New Year’s. Every now and then she’ll have just the two of us go so we can do a little weeding. But by myself? It just didn’t happen. I mean, I would take the dog on walks all the way around the cemetery, but I did not go into the cemetery.
I could not tell you what changed. There was from one day to the next a sense of “I should go there.” The few times I had gone in the last four years, I tended to take a book to read to him. Usually one of his favorites, in the vein of Curious George or Dr. Seuss. That’s what I took the first time I went, a few weeks ago.
But this time, the children’s book didn’t feel quite right. I’ll admit, there was also the logistical issue that children’s books are often a larger format, meaning I can’t easily fit them into a pocket of my fleece or coat. But I found myself sitting there reading about Solla-Sollew and noticing that Colin’s 10th birthday had just passed. And would I have read this book to Emma or Noah when they were 10? Hardly. So I went back to the bookshelf and found a Hardy Boys book I had brought back for the kids from a trip to the States years ago.
The book had gone down like a lead balloon when I first presented it to Noah. He could read English even back then, but the 1950s English – ‘On the double!’ Joe cried as they started up the steep embankment – with all of its references to jalopies and hot rods was impenetrable for him. I never followed up on it. So the book sat on a shelf until a few weeks ago.
I’ll admit, I’ve forgotten more about the Hardy Boys than I knew. Or maybe, since this is the first book in the series, the line-up of supporting characters changed for the later stories. I’d like to think that, if I had regularly read stories with an Oscar Smuff appearing, I would have remembered the character’s name. But the chapters are short and easy to read and I feel it’s something I can do for him. Murphy doesn’t seem to mind tagging along. And, at this point, I kind of want to know who stole Chet’s faithful jalopy, which he named Queen.
It feels like I’ve had a shift. I’m not saying I don’t grieve my dead son, but the grief is less ‘sad’ and more just a fact of my existence. I’m tall. I’m a journalist. I have a dead son. These are just true things that I can rattle off about myself. Then again, we watched “Inception” the other night and the idea of being stuck in a dream where Colin was still alive didn’t sound all that bad to me.
And it still sneaks up on you. A few days ago I was talking to a friend whose wife went through a similar cancer therapy to Christina’s (last chemo is Tuesday!). I was just curious about how long it took her hair to grow back, because I was curious and wanted a reference. We discussed it a little until I realized I don’t need a reference. I know exactly how fast hair grows back after chemotherapy. I have pictures and pictures of Colin through those months, his head going from peach fuzzy to full-blown moppet. I guess I had forgotten. Just like I’ve forgotten what’s going to happen to the Hardy Boys as they track down the Tower Treasure.
Having him around would be better. That goes without saying. And I can’t say I’m glad about the current situation. But it’s better than nothing to find some comfort reading Hardy Boys at his grave with the dog.