We went to visit Nick on Christmas morning. “Visit Nick”—that’s what we’ve decided to call it when we spend time at his graveside. “Going to the cemetery” focuses on the place, not the person, so is too impersonal, too abstract. “Paying our respects” is another option, but sounds too formal to describe going to the place where our son’s body lies. So we “visit Nick,” just like we did on Christmas morning.
We sleep in for a while, then eat breakfast, then open gifts. To this point it has been just like every other Christmas for the past 20 years, save for his absence. Now, with those well-worn traditions behind us, we have entered into that lull between our morning routine and our Christmas dinner. And so, rather spontaneously, we don our coats and boots, our hats and mitts, and make the short drive.
Snow has blanketed the town—it began after nightfall on Christmas Eve and ended just as dawn was breaking on Christmas morning. It covers the ground, of course, but also every roof and every car. It clings to every branch of every tree. It is the most pristinely white Christmas we have ever witnessed.
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