Set in Stone

I've been a little preoccupied with permanent marks lately. Before we left our townhouse, I felt compelled to take pictures of the hill where Ammon crashed his motorcycle. It was a mere 500 yards from my front door, and I felt a bittersweet set of emotions knowing that I wouldn't be faced with the reminder of that hill every day when I drove home.

This photo was taken standing nearly at the bottom of the hill, and looking back up. Ammon's accident site was about the middle of this photo. Our best guess is that he lost control of his motorcycle somewhere near the top of this hill, and hit the pavement about halfway down. This hill is also what kept those of us near our front door from actually seeing the accident--particularly Russ. It's a small mercy I've been grateful for many, many times. Seeing the after-effects of the impact was bad enough. I can only imagine what nightmares seeing the actual impact would have caused.

If you look closely, there is a small white groove in the center of this picture, stretching from the left side to the right side. At this point, this is the only mark left on the pavement from where his motorcycle hit the ground and slid several feet.

Standing near the top of the hill, near where I was when I first laid eyes on my eerily still husband.

The mark I saw today was a different kind of mark, but somehow even more permanent. Eventually, the mark on the pavement will probably fade away. Even now, it's a little difficult to know exactly where it is. For a long time I avoided that hill, and the memory of the exact placement of his body is difficult to dredge up. This other mark, this will last forever. Generations from now, ancestors will see this mark. My children will always associate this mark with their Daddy.

To those of you who have been kept in the dark about the headstone, I apologize. It was something I felt like I had to do. I know I hurt some of you with my refusal to discuss the timing of it's placement, or the features of it's design. This headstone, this piece of granite--it's my last gift to Ammon. I thought long and hard about the design and what I would have written on it, and every word on that stone comes from a place deep inside my heart. I suppose I wanted it to come from my heart only, and couldn't bear the thought of any input marring the tribute I wanted to make. It's a personal gift, one that I am now ready to share with everybody else.

It's an odd kind of closure, but today, I'll take what I can get.