We visit Sarah’s grave every Sunday after church. He tells her all about his math tests and how he’s finally learning to ride a dirt bike. The terrible nightmares are slowly fading away. The dark, haunted shadows in his bright green eyes are completely disappearing.
Yesterday, I parked my bike and picked him up from elementary school. He ran across the sunny blacktop, his heavy backpack bouncing against his small shoulders. He threw his tiny arms around my waist.
“Hey, buddy,” I said, gently ruffling his hair. “Did you have a good day?”
“The absolute best!” he beamed up at me. “We learned about heroes today in class. I told them heroes wear leather, ride loud motorcycles, and save kids when their mamas have to go to heaven.”
I choked up, putting my rough hand on his small shoulder. « I’m so incredibly proud of you, kid. » We started walking back toward the parking lot together.
