Yesterday I placed an order for a bronze plaque from a local monument company. When it arrives, I will pick it up, drive twenty minutes out of town, climb the mountain to my son’s grave, and mount the plaque on a stone found nearby.

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November 27, 2003. Thanksgiving. My son would have been 30 years old. He lived his very short life of 5 1/2 months in the hospital NICU. It was not always easy to stay as he struggled to survive, but Alice and I chose to spend as much time with him as we could no matter the cost. My most vivid memories are of gently rocking him. We touched each other’s souls then. To have a child die is not all bad. I learned much and continue to discover creative ways to relate to him now.

Which is why on his 30th birthday I decided to mark his life in a new way. Until now his name, birth and death date have been carved in an oak block that stands in front of a maple tree planted over his grave. This small wood marker has been weathered by sun and snow, so much so that it is now impossible to know who rests under the tree. I have watched this natural aging process of wood over the years and thought it appropriate. But it is different this year. I can no longer stand by to let nature decide how, or even whether, to mark my son’s name, birth and death date. I need to reclaim him in bronze.

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I probably visit his grave more than anyone else. Few people know where he is buried so I do not imagine that a new marker will attract much attention. To be honest, few people even know that he lived at all. My decision is a private matter and it has lead me to reflect about why this is so important now after so many years.

I have come to realize that the plaque marks me as much as my son. As his story is being erased by the decaying oak block, so is mine, and I am not ready to let us both go. I ordered the marker to say "not yet." I am not yet ready to surrender to the inevitable disappearance of all things mortal. Call it whatever you want, I need to keep telling his story, the story of my life as his father, and the story of being a father of two children.

After all, I am a father of two children, one dead at 5 1/2 months, the other wonderfully alive. I spend time with my daughter in Seattle. We have long and sweet conversations on the phone. She visits on Holidays. My story naturally continues with her. But finding a way to keep telling the story of my first born is not as easy. Alice and I did write Our Life With Caleb. That helps, but on his 30th birthday I needed something more. I needed to commemorate him in bronze and in so doing engrave my story of being a father of both children.

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Bronze will surely outlive my flesh and bones just as much as it has already surpassed my son’s. I find that comforting in an odd way as I imagine someone stumbling across the marker in the woods pondering the death of this young child. They will wonder about his short life. They will imagine his parents, family, and friends. They will ask if he had siblings. And they will know something about me even though they probably will not know that I ordered the bronze plaque. But I know and wanted you to know too.