...the last time I was standing over the grave of my son Hunter Alexander, I wasn't sad.  That might sound shitty, but I wasn't sad at all... 

The grave itself is lovely... right under the biggest oak tree in this little cemetary.  Literally located at the foot of this tree, like the sapling was put there as a memorandum to his very short lived life.  Placing a wreath of the largest size the local floral shop had, up against the bark of his living monolith, was a common sight to see each year as that date came around.

My first visit to his grave was brutal, with fuerals ranking in the top five most undesirable, and poorly handled occasions of all time.  I did my best to keep my composure amidst the tears and well wishings and apologies from those present.

Though I have never discussed it, I feel the need to tell you about my second trip to his grave.  I was alone this time.  No family, no friends, just me and a half finished 12 pack in my truck.  It was one week after the funeral and the sunset was creeping in... 

I barely made it through the gate, with his grave only being 30 feet or so from entrance, as I strived to keep my shit together, wobbling over to it.  I sat against the tree which put his flat-to-the-ground headstone between my legs and...

I wept. 

I cried and I begged... and asked, and pleaded, and yelled, and shook my fist at the tallest of the branches above me... then wept again.  I woke up to a stranger asking if I was OK, or if I needed some help.  No doubt a scary sight to round the bend on this back country highway just to have your headlights pass over a fallen body near the entrance to a cemetary... With red, swollen, empty eyes, I tried my best to smile and tell him "no" and to thank him for waking me.  I floated back to my '67 ford, cracked open another beer, and left.

I still believe to this day that those tears I cried that second visit are still nourishing that spot today.  His headstone has a diameter of about 10 feet of lush green grass and the tree is as alive and healthy as any you have ever seen, despite being forgotten and not watered or cared for by anyone.  Can't blame the groundskeeper, as he is 70+ years old and has to watch over 7 other cemetaries in this county... The rest of the cemetary is in shambles, with all the grass dead and all the other trees looking as if they were forgotten by mother nature herself and only continue to stand due to the rigidity that death causes.  This was, after all, a field of death.  A heavy-hearted esplanade for remembering those who have left us.

I stopped going to his grave on a regular basis when I moved out of state, as the commute to Oklahoma was quite the task.  Along with the fact that I knew there was no longer a need to.  The last few visits left me with the overwhelming feeling that he didn't want me there.  He didn't want to see me cry anymore.  He didn't want to be the reason that I lost sleep.  He didn't want to be remebered like that... At one point, he literally told me... "Dad... go.  Don't come back until I ask you to, and I will ask you to... someday." 

I believed him.  Even though a part of me told myself that I was being extremely selfish and only looking for a reason not to deal with this any longer... But guess what?  He was right...

He recently asked me to go back... now is the time...

To be continued... these things just come to me and now it isn't coming any more... the end will come and when it does, I will write the conclusion to this tale... Most likely within the next few days...

I am HunterDad, and all of this is absolutely true....but not everything is as it seems....

PS... the story of Hunter Alexander is up now, and it's the conclusion...