His place is back along a tree line overlooking a ravine and small stream. The undergrowth is of typical Hoosier variety; mulberry. sassafras, wild blackberries. At first, he had few neighbors and it was not unusual to see tracks of deer, of fox, of the omnipresent squirrels in the winter snow. Over time, there came more neighbors, and I was saddened, but not surprised, when bulldozers cleared a large swath of trees nearby. This part of Hamilton County is among the fastest growing areas in the country.
I used to visit him every week, then once a month. Now, I talk with him a handful of times a year. It is not fair of me. He got me through the most depressing and darkest times of my life. When I said I could not go on, he told me "Not today, things will get better. Not today."
I smile when I think about how he wrestled with his little sister laughing and shouting, his older sister supervising with a wry grin. There are the ball games, the soccer games, school plays. All fictitious memories that never happened. The baseball and pleather glove I gave him lie unused. The ball rotted away a few years ago. The glove lies cracked and faded. On each visit I think of him as he would be, growing older, playing, going to school, not how he is, a little baby boy who lived but a day.
I will go visit him Monday to celebrate a bittersweet birthday. Tuesday is a black anniversary I will try unsuccessfully to forget.
Next Friday I will go down and put a little metal Santa Claus next to his grave as I do every year.
And life goes on, the way of the Lord mysterious.
