Victor Hugo, the author of Les Miserables, had this to say of his anticipation of Heaven:  “When I go to the grave I can say, as others have said, ‘My day’s work is done.’ But I cannot say, ‘My life is done.’  My work will recommence the next morning.  The tomb is not a blind alley; it is a thoroughfare.  It closes upon the twilight, but opens upon the dawn.”

The morning after the accident, I woke up with the hurt deep in my stomach that would loom there relentlessly until the beginning of December.  I don’t know how to describe that ache.  Growing up, I played soccer.  I was a goalkeeper.  Occasionally, I would take a ball to the gut that knocked the wind out of me temporarily.  That is the best I can come up with to compare that feeling.  Except, this ache would go on to cultivate itself within me and never subside.  I wanted my son.  I needed to hear his voice and look into his eyes.  I craved the touch of his skin, his laughter, the smell of his sweaty head after playing outside.  I needed to know what he was doing.  At the time, I did not see the afterlife as a suitable alternative to him being with me.  Who would lay his clothes out in the morning and take him to baseball?

My in-laws came over that morning, and many mornings to come.  The endless flow of visitors began around 11am on Sunday.  I felt ashamed I hadn’t attended church.  I just couldn’t.  I was envious that my daughter still went that day.  Her strength felt unattainable to me.  I do not know who all I spoke to in the next 24 hours.  I can’t recall the faces.  I don’t know what I said to people.  Visitors ranged from teachers and counselors at both Augusta Middle School and Wichita Collegiate to preachers from local churches, to owners of various restaurants.  Friends, close, as well as distant, came by to show their support.  Parents of Dalton’s friends expressed their condolences.  Tears and pain in their eyes mirrored my own.

My dad and step mom arrived, as did Father Sam.  We reminisced with Father about Dalton as a little boy and how ornery he was.  He said we all needed to lean on one another and hold dear to our faith.  He went on to say the devil would use this time to tempt us the most, as we were very vulnerable.  The ache in my stomach intensified.  Father stayed quite awhile and did his best to comfort the four of us.  Visitors continued to arrive, tears shed, and stories of Dalton told.  I wanted to show my gratitude to everyone who came to console us, but I wasn’t sure how to do that.

We met with the funeral director at Headley.  We decided how to write Dalton’s obituary, who we would ask to be the pall bearers, and what casket to place him in.  A white one was chosen so his friends would have the opportunity to sign it with sharpies.  On each of the four corners would be removable ornaments of the Pieta (the Virgin Mary cradling the body of Jesus across her lap).  The whole thing seemed surreal.  No part of me wanted to be making these arrangements.  Though there was nothing to look forward to when we got home, I longed to leave the funeral home.  In silence, the four of us drove back to the house.  That night, minutes turned to hours and nightfall came.  I didn’t want to fall asleep for the second time without knowing my son was tucked safely in his bed.

Monday started the same as Sunday.  What a routine.  Wake up in the morning with a sensory overload.  Tears.  Stomach ache.  Longing.  We had no answers to the sadness.  No one did.  I went to brush my teeth and I stared at the mirror.  A vivid memory invaded my thoughts.  Five days earlier I had been in my bathroom with Dalton.  He was lobbying hard for a new pair of basketball shoes that he just “had to have.”  I asked him what was wrong with the past four pairs I had bought him.  After a few minutes of discussing how unnecessary another pair of shoes were, the conversation ended like it usually did.  DD promised he would “work to pay them off” and I reluctantly agreed knowing he never would.  After he succeeded in convincing me that day, he turned to my vanity mirror, tipped his chin up and rubbed the little cleft in it.  He smiled at me and said, “why did you have to give me this dent?”

My sister and her family got into town by early afternoon on Monday.  Relief mixed with heartbreak surged through me at the sight of my sister.  I looked at my nephew and saw the image of pure anguish on his face.  He shared a special bond with Dalton and it hurt me to see him suffer.  Somewhere within the next hour, a detective appeared at our doorstep.  He read the final police report to us and handed me a large envelope.  Inside the envelope were Dalton’s final possessions:  orange gloves with blades of grass stuck to them, the blood-stained ski mask, and his phone.  I broke into a thousand pieces.

Father Schemm visited us that day as well.  Many preparations had to be made for the rosary and funeral services.  I flipped through a book and chose the appropriate readings and psalms for the Mass.  In hindsight, I don’t know how I did that.  How does a mother select those sort of things?  Again, I tried to pray to God for guidance and found myself only able to ask for strength.  My brother and sister agreed to read at the funeral.  We decided on the three brave boys to read at the rosary. It was also important to Keely that she be given the opportunity to speak.  Father anticipated a large gathering at the viewing, rosary, and funeral.  He went over the whole procedure on what to expect.  He informed me that right before the funeral Mass, the casket would be closed for the final time.  The pain in my stomach reinforced my misery.

I have no idea how, but Keely and I were able to go pick out Dalton’s personal belongings to be set out at the viewing and rosary.  We selected pictures, art projects, trophies and other mementos to give my friend Missy to arrange at the viewing.  She took control of the whole thing.  She asked me for an outfit to bury DD in.  I chose the blue and white Butler County Baseball Cubs shirt he wore about 5 times a week, some sweatpants, a pair of brand new Elite socks we had bought at Dicks exactly one week prior, and his Lebron basketball shoes.  His baseball coach was going to provide a jersey to bury him in that would go over his t-shirt.

Upon going through Dalton’s dresser drawer that day, I stumbled upon a holy card entitled “A Prayer for November” that no one in our family had ever seen before.  On the front was a picture of the crucifixion with the phrase “O Lord, Remember The Palmer Family Living and Deceased” and on the back was a prayer.  The third paragraph of the prayer read “When I am sad at the death of those who were close to me, may my sadness be firmly supported by my faith that life is merely changed not ended, that those I love are still with me though unseen.  O Lord, increase my faith in the great mystery of eternal life.  Teach me to live each day knowing that all here passes and that when we leave we will travel very lightly.”  I had no idea at the time that I would one day do much more than just read those words… I would live them out and preach them to everyone I could.