I am going to visit my son next week. We will have a quiet chat about how things are going for us, and the dreams we have for next year. I will tease him about the fact that he is going to be a first time grandfather, and that he is probably excited that it is a baby girl.

I will sit next to him, and tell him about the horror I feel at the loss of those 26 people at the hands of a madman, especially those little children. He will understand, he is a parent too.

I will make sure I bring along his favorite beer for him, and I will bring flowers to cheer up the place. It gets a bit dreary in Oklahoma this time of year.

And then, when I have shared all the news, thoughts, and events of the year, I will tell him how much I miss him every day. I will tell him how I wish we could be together and that I sure could use his help sometimes.

Because I can’t hug or kiss him, I will softly pass my hand over the letters on his headstone that spell out his name instead.

Then I will leave him there, resting in that small cemetery on top of the hill. Until next time I stop by to say hello. He will wait for me. He always does.