I don’t know why, but it came as a shock to me that because my son was not married, it was up to his father and me as next of kin to make a whole load of decisions we so did not want to make when he died: cremation or burial; where to bury; casket color and style and open or closed; clothes to dress him in; headstone material, design, size and copy; music … and words.
His dad thought it right that I write something for the funeral “program”, an idea that jarred me to my bones, to say the least. I could not imagine that I could find any words at all … but I did.
Here they are as they appear on the back page of the whatever-the-mortuary-handout-thing-is-called:
Jaren Eli Combes
17 February 1971 – 2 June 2009
The bluest eyes
The sharpest mind
The brightest wit
The kindest soul
The biggest heartFrom tiny baby boy to
Big Guy
In stumbling steps
through 38 years
Reaching
Dreaming
Hoping
Giving
half of his last cookie
the shirt off his back
acceptance without judgement
love without conditionIllustrated composer
repository of memories
assuager of consciences
We laughed and danced in
his quirky brillianceToo James Dean
to stick around too long
We run with the thought of
a rock & roll heavenFind peace, my son
A collection of my short stories:
I'm in this one, too ...
And I'm in here, as well ...
Paradise Preoccupied 