The cemetery became the one place where I didn’t have to pretend I was doing better than I actually was.
I visited Caleb every Sunday.
At first, I went because staying home felt worse.
Then it became a routine.
Every Sunday morning, I bought coffee from the same little shop near my neighborhood.
I drove across town, parked beneath a row of old trees, and walked the familiar path toward Caleb’s grave.
Sometimes I brought flowers.
Sometimes I talked.
“I saw your old friend at the grocery store,” I might say.
Or, “Your aunt still makes too much food every Thanksgiving.”
Once, after my car battery died, I stood beside his headstone and said, “You would have laughed at me. I spent 20 minutes looking for the hood release.”
Talking to a grave sounds strange until you have someone inside one.
Then it feels perfectly reasonable.
For several months, I had started noticing a dog there almost every time I visited.
