You feel a little further away every time I leave your grave. Each step carries me away from the last hours I held you.

I startle half a dozen times a day thinking you are moving, and for a split second it all feels unreal, like my life could be rewound, and a thousand trips to your tree erased and with them the ordeal of burying you. For a whole second, I have hope.

Then the second passes. And I remember that I could not have felt you move. That I have not felt you flip and squirm and move to Ben Folds or your brother's raucous for 65 whole days. I remember that your due date is not approaching. I remember that you are wrapped in a quilt and resting in a box that is buried under a muskagee myrtle in the field.

And then I force my eyes around this giant, and remember you are whole and perfect in heaven. I remember that this is just one more moment that I can praise Him in the storm. One more moment I can show my sons my tears and grief and let them hear me say, "He is still good."