It was very hard being at your grave last week. We were there for Aunt Ida's funeral and we visited Grandma and you. Mommy and Jack and I have been putting pretty, polished, colored stones on your grave. It is an old Jewish custom. Mommy put your stone bear on the marker this time. I had a rock from your Henry and the Wolf book. The person who runs the cemetery warned us that the rocks are bad because they can shoot out from under the lawn mowers that cut the grass. The man said the flying rocks can hurt the headstones and other stuff at the cemetery. Mommy wants to put even bigger stones on your grave so the mowers won't go over you. She's a smarty farty.
Jack didn't go with us, and that probably is a good thing. Friday was "dress up day" at school. Jack put on the clothes that he wore for your funeral: the pants, shirt and jacket. It was the first time he wore that stuff since the day you were buried. I wonder if he thought about that. I think that way all the time. It's how I measure every experience. Each day is the first time I do this or that, or the first time I've been here or there without you or since you died. Thinking that way makes me remember you and gets me all sorts of sad. Today was the first time I went to Jeanie's Shoe Store since we left for Minnesota, the first time I've been back to Jacob Stern's house since that time in the early fall when we were all there playing in the backyard and the first time I've been to Guy Mason to play since you died . At some point I'll have done everything and gone everywhere again, and I'll just think about how I miss doing things or being places without you. Does that make sense; it's late. Thanks for listening to me, Big Guy.
I love you.