Anthony’s dead. These are the two words I hear as soon as I wake up. Anthony’s dead. If I’m not concentrating on something else, these two words creep into my mind. Sometimes I play with them. I mentally say them as a question, an exclamation, I shout them, whisper them, deny them but nothing changes, Anthony’s still dead.
My mother had passed away at the end of March and I thought I’d be an old hand at this funeral business. My mother was 89 and in poor health. Anthony, my younger son was 33. An accident caused the loss of a productive life. As a gerontologist he was supposed to look after me in my old age.
I was worried that looking for photos for the memorial would be painful. Surprisingly it was not. As a photographer I have six or seven albums of the children so my brain was kept busy as I relived the past. Together my family and I made the final cut. We remembered and laughed. There was Anthony, in the red rubber boots he loved, sitting on the potty.
I hoped if I saw Anthony the words would go away. Regardless, I had to see him one last time.