At some point, you simply give up on (some) people. I’m talking about the ones who regularly offer up the most perfunctory responses response to me (or Mary) when they learn about Mark’s story and how our 33-year-old son was killed. How many times am I going to have to hear “I can’t imagine”?

Americans are nothing if not superficial. If they are able to muster a shred of empathy and support during a tough patch, they rarely are capable of sustaining it for long. We’re a country where sliding glibly over the horrific and returning to our happy, positive thoughts is akin to taking a drug. Of course, speaking of drugs, there’s a pharmaceutical for everything, especially ones designed to numb any pain. Then, did you see this? Apparently, psychedelics are a thing again.

I never liked reading or hearing about the death of a son or daughter, preceding their parents. Being a father, I never had difficulty summoning empathy for them. I simply imagined how I’d likely feel if I ended up in their shoes. I’m wearing them now and it hurts worse than I imagined it would.

While there are people in my life who I’ve simply moved on from, there are still some—many of them people who knew Mark and who have “adopted us” as his parents—who send beautiful notes, call, get me out to shows, offer to hike with me: all of this demonstrates the veracity of their words right after Mark’s death. Their expressions of sorrow and sympathy were more than mere platitudes. I am grateful for them. I consider them friends. It’s obvious that they continue to remember Mark and care about him. By extension, they care about us, too.

Planting flowers for Mark and others.

In a few weeks, it will be 17 months since Mark was killed. Mary and I drove to Saco and planted flowers last weekend, the day before Memorial Day. We had Laurel Hill Cemetery to ourselves and our sorrow with “Sunday morning coming down.” Yes, “there’s something about a Sunday…”

We dug a bit and placed the annuals in front of the shared gravestone that is engraved on the back with our family information, including the dates spanning Mark’s all-too-brief life. I read some poems like I usually do. We cried a bit. Then, we sat in our portable chairs and watched the abundant life all around us, especially the birds, flying over the Saco River.

Imagine learning your son or daughter has been tragically taken from you. It’s not that hard. Then, imagine knowing that act will remain with you every single day for the rest of your lives. It doesn’t go away, or get easier, and you never come to accept it.

Imagine that!