Temporary Grave Markers

The Graveyard Shift
"Bring me some water, would ya? How are you doing?"

Michael and I arrived at the cemetery and it was time to get out of his truck to visit his burial site chosen.

"How do you think I am?" I asked, holding the water bottle to his lips. I find keeping my hands busy and her mouth filled with food and drink is an excellent way for me ease in difficult conversations. You have to learn things like that when questions like: "Can I ask you a question?" are filled with a sincere "Can you handle the answer?" My lame attempts to avoid Do not Fool Michael for a second, but nonetheless reassuring gestures, and he indulges my little game

Help me, he took extra long drink am, never taking his eyes from me.

"I do not know. Tell me."

"Well, I do not know either."

He accepted this answer because it was true.

"First, I want you to listen to this." He said I should play the tape that he had spotted on a speech by Wayne Dyer. What it has done its own merit blog, which will be followed shortly, but for now I can say that the tone of what was to follow. Michael took me to his tomb, which stood at the foot of his mother. At his request, I placed a wreath for her and then I offered to remove the evidence of the migration of Canada geese, which had stained the stone.

Despite my own wiping the marker I found when I got home I could not for the life of me recall seeing any last name on the tombstone. I could remember the years of birth and death, I could remember his first name, middle initial. Even "Wife, mother, grandmother" and the engraved image of the cross with two angels kneeling in prayer beside him. My mind, this day just would not register "Schwass" carved in granite.

I sat on the floor where he reserved the aftermath of 9-11 and then asked to reflect on the oak branches arch over the site.

"I'll give you some time here." Michael began to make his way to the big statue of Mary, whose outstretched arms embrace this section of the cemetery. After a few moments I sat and watched as he made his way slowly over the uneven ground strewn with tombstones, trying to minimize the crush of his pain, part-November cold.

As always happens when I'm with Michael, I am aware that my time with him occurs at two levels. There is the gross level of meaning, which is linked to the emotion of the moment and have no apparent end of their creative ways of dealing with them, as evidenced by their blatant refusal to see his name on the tombstone . These emotions that have plagued constantly and I have tried several times to save a draft of his suffering (read: my suffering) and ultimate death (read: my suffering of others).

But thanks to his tireless dedication to learn to recognize and take responsibility for my emotions and inner turmoil, I became increasingly aware that the other more quiet part of me is able to take in everything around me to reflect further later. This visit to the cemetery was no exception.

As I watched Michael Inching Mary's way, even with eyes full of tears, I knew how much I love her being. It is quite unique for me, what I feel. I can only describe as kaleidoscopic. I love my husband as a husband and a friend. I love my brother as a brother and friend. I love my nieces and nephews and nieces and nephews. The all clear meaning for me, and love can be huge, but it has also defined the meaning of the relationship with her. With Michael, I can honestly say that sometimes I look and it feels like a son to me. I mean literally. However, I could see the "little boy" very clear in my husband several times, but it never feels like he is my son. Pr