My cousin called from Oakwood and asked if we could visit the town’s old memorial park. She wanted us to leave a small stone on her grandmother’s resting place, as she was too far away to do it herself. We were already nearby, so we agreed to go.
We bought a smooth, grey stone from a shop and drove to the quiet grounds. I had my little son with me, and I saw no reason to explain the purpose of our visit to someone so young. We walked along the paths, searching for the correct marker among the many.
We paused near a small, weathered stone that read ‘Our Little James, 1999’. My cousin pointed it out silently. We stood for a moment, thinking about the short life it represented.
Suddenly, my son spoke in his clear, small voice. ‘The boy is sad,’ he stated. We looked at each other, startled. ‘What did you say?’ I asked him. He looked directly at the stone. ‘The boy is sad,’ he repeated.
It was an uncanny moment. We were full of questions, but it is difficult to have such a conversation with a young child. I asked him if he could see the boy. He nodded slowly, his expression suddenly deep and knowing, a look that did not belong on a child’s face.