The grass at Glen Oaks Cemetery had already begun to fade from its bright summer green to its drab winter brown on the day we first visited. The November breeze blew cold upon us as we walked the rows of graves to choose the spot where we would bury our son. We eventually chose a plot near the end of a long row, beneath the shade of a young tree. A few days later we watched his coffin be lowered into the ground in that very spot. We heard the pastor, my dearest friend, say the dreaded words, “Dust to dust.” We stood together as a family, arms linked, tears flowing, hearts breaking.
And now we have come to the next November and I find myself standing in that very same spot reflecting on a year that has come and gone. I have heard some people refer to this as a “deathday,” a morbid parallel to “birthday.” I prefer to stick with the wordier and more formal “anniversary of his death.” And, indeed, today is the first anniversary of the day Nick went to heaven. A full year has passed since we received the news that he
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