The day before Thanksgiving, the girls (my wife and daughter) and I drove out to the cemetery to be present with our son, pray for him, and simply pay our respects and honor him. Because Poppy Jack (grandpa) is literally right next to Cooper, we did the same for him.

We were also able to stand over our future burial plots and take a deep breath. Surreal.

I feel a great sense of peace at the cemetery. We are first a sensing and feeling people, then a thinking people. I feel peace in my chest when I visit my son’s final resting place, my future resting place, my wife’s future resting place. No thought, just felt peace. Warmth. I sense you, thin space; I feel you.

The skies were clear, sprinkled with clouds, the wind calm, the temperature in the 50s. A perfect Arizona day… in the Midwest! If you’re from Arizona, you know of what I preach.

The cemetery is well kept. There are many trees, the grass is mowed nicely, and the surroundings are natural Midwest grasses and trees. It’s quiet, except for the low hum of highway. The sun comes through the trees at the right angles, and the birds and bugs fly about.

I am glad we made the decision to bury Cooper next to his grandfather in this place. I’m also glad I know where I will come to rest.

I used to be good friends with an Anglican priest, Kyle. Kyle baptized our daughter in Asheville, North Carolina. In the lake, Lake Powhatan, by full immersion. All of our children—one, two, three, four—were baptized in the Anglican church. (We’re no longer Anglicans, but that’s a different blog post…)

Kyle moved to the South years ago, and through distance and time, our friendship has waned. I still count Kyle as a friend; we just don’t communicate often. I’m one of those people who holds time. I have certain friends, a small group, whom I haven’t seen in 20 years, and if I were to see them today, we would pick right back up where we left off. This holds true for Kyle.

I remember attending an If You Were Mine adoption conference with Kyle in  Texas. After a day of conferencing, we went to a local pub and were waxing philosophical about life. A conversation about “home” came up. Kyle asked me, “Where do you consider your home, Kelly?” It was an interesting question.

I couldn’t answer the question, so Kyle asked me in a different way, “Where do you want to be buried when you die?” I said I really didn’t know. He said, “When you can answer that question, then you will know where your home is.” Sage wisdom; I guess that’s why he’s a priest.

I was not born in the Midwest, but my wife was. We moved to the Midwest in 2020 to help care for her father, whose health was failing due to Parkinson’s disease. 

I thought when we moved to Montana from Arizona, that Montana was my final “home,” that there would be no more moves, that it would be the place I was buried. I really believed that. I had visions of becoming a bearded old man with dogs in the front seat of my 1970 wood-paneled Grand Wagoneer, living and tinkering about the mountains.

Where’s my home now? The Midwest. I had a premonition when we moved to the Midwest that this would be my final place, my home, the place where I was buried. I had no idea it would involve the loss of my youngest son, but here we are.

Anyway, last week, after praying and talking with Cooper and Poppy, we walked around the cemetery looking at headstones. We have not yet purchased a headstone for Cooper. As we walked about, we were looking for ideas and inspiration. As I have already mentioned, I am a minimalist. My wife is too, to a lesser degree.

If I were to go back in my life 20 years, I would tell you that death scared me. I disliked funerals, cemeteries, hospice, all manner and talk of death. I know why this is. When I was young, in 4th grade, a good friend was killed by a train. Later, in my early teens, my best friend was electrocuted. Death introduced itself too early into my life in traumatic ways. It scared me.

I don’t know what’s happened over the years as I’ve aged—maybe it’s just maturity, maybe 25 years of firefighting and coming face to face with death pretty frequently—but I no longer fear death.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.” I wish I could say God is the reason I no longer fear death, as if I have a profound belief in the beauty of the afterlife in heaven. Maybe. It’s probably more the case that I am jaded and death has simply lost its sting.

It was weird how easily we walked around this cemetery, quietly talking and looking for headstone ideas. My wife and I are in agreement: we are looking for something simple, dignified, and unique. The three of us walked and talked and respectfully spent time with the dead. How interesting is my life becoming? Why?

You contracted in on yourself, Cooper; are you now an expanding supernova star spilling into my, our, life?

It was a good day.

The next day, Thanksgiving, we bucked tradition and had cheeseburgers on the Blackstone with seven-layer dip, deviled eggs, and baked beans. Simple. The boys did not fly in for Thanksgiving, but they will come for Christmas. Grandma came over and ate with us. Me and the three ladies. Winning.

Was Thanksgiving a hard day? Yes. What I am learning in child loss is that as a father, I know I have a child missing. It’s palpable, not as an added weight, but as a negation, an emptiness, a vacuum. I have an internal homing beacon that is always aware of and tracking my kids in the back of my mind, night and day. My beacon knows Cooper is not here; there’s a negative space.

This emptiness hurts, and I think it’s what they call grief.

Recently, I came across two pictures of sculptures on the internets (I am purposely writing ‘internets’ in plural; give it time, you will learn to appreciate my humor). These sculptures help describe how I am sometimes feeling. It’s hard for me to put into words how I feel because I have new emotions I have never experienced before. These emotions are complex and interwoven, and they ebb and flow. It’s a real treat, let me tell you.

As I pick my head up and look around me, I see that I am not the only one experiencing these complex emotions. My wife is, Cooper’s brothers are, his sister, his grandparents, his uncle, related family, his close friends, and close family friends, all are. I’m simply the writer here, sharing my grief in the hopes of finding some healing. I am aware we all hurt, and I am not alone. Further, I know there are other parents who have lost children, and they hurt too.

This is a tough gang to be in. The beat-in leaves a mark. Crippin.

1. György, Albert. Mélancolie, 2012. Wikimedia Commons, uploaded by art_inthecity, Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic license, https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:M%C3%A9lancolie_by_Albert_Gy%C3%B6rgy.jpg. Accessed 25 Sept. 2024. ↩︎
2. “Media Search for ‘Hooded Sorrow’.” Wikimedia Commons, 2023, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?search=hooded+sorrow&title=Special:MediaSearch&go=Go&type=image. Accessed 25 Sept. 2024. ↩︎