Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down

Here is a picture of Mike's headstone that Mom and Dad e-mailed to me today.  The cross used to hang in his room when he was a little boy.  I had one just like it, with a little girl praying.  If I ever find mine, I will give it to Dolly.  They sent me the photo because even though I was there when the priest interred Mike's cremains, I never saw the headstone after it was put on the columbarium.

Let's just pause for a moment to reflect that words like "cremains" and "columbarium" have entered my vocabulary.  Dad keeps incorrectly referring to the columbarium as "Mike's Crypt," which makes me think of late-night zombie movies.

Some days I can go for longer stretches without thinking about him, though it's always there bubbling under the surface.  There are moments I pretend to have acceptance.  Then I see a photo like this one, and am shocked into stunned silence.  Acceptance is so far down the road, I'm not sure I even believe it is there.