It’s been an interesting journey with Enoch’s grave. I remember when he was first buried that I didn’t like going there because there was nothing to indicate my son was buried in that exact spot. The most important person to me in the world, and nobody even knew he was there.
It didn’t take long for us to put converse there with his birthdate written on them as a form of marker. It was something that made me feel better when I went to visit the grave. Plus, to me they represented his style so well… at least that’s how I anticipated his style being. Since I would be dressing him, I assure you converse would have been his style.
Then in March, they threw out his shoes. More of that story here. So since March I’ve been waiting to get the gravestone in. During those months of waiting, there was once again nothing at the gravesite. It created that tension of not wanting to go. It just seemed so sad with nothing there.
Finally a couple weeks ago the grave marker came in. I wanted it. I needed to know that he was there, my son, Enoch. But when I saw it for the first time, it took my breath away. In stone and metal there it was, so permeant. I really did give brith to a son, he really did die, and his physical being will forever lay in that place. Suddenly the reality of it all hit me once again.