by my mother's stone, by my son's side

This is the last Christmas that we'll call our son a student, or that he'll think of himself that way.  I am aware of the passing of each day.  I gladly accept every hug.

I gladly accept, too, his heart.  His willingness to rearrange this very afternoon so that he could join me in a winter trip out to my mother's grave.  In two days she will be five years gone.

"But you're so busy," I said, when he offered to come.

"No, no, Mom.  I'm not too busy.  Not too busy for that."

We stood before her stone, a polished red granite.  We placed a basket of greens by the stone.  We remembered her out loud, one to the other, and then we walked this path to the car.

He understands honor, this beautiful, grown-up kid of mine.