Up the street and further up the hill is an old cemetery that overlooks Myrtle Point and catches the last rays of the setting sun. At the far end of the road that loops through the graves is a small wooden grave sign reading “Joe Nye, My Son” in those adhesive letters people put on mailboxes. There are no dates or other names. When I first noticed it, I thought it might be a temporary marker holding the place for a stone. But the years have gone by and the paint is peeling.
More puzzling are the simple words “My Son.” I often imagine the aching heart of the father who may have peeled the back off the letters and pressed then on the boards. The words may seem almost too simple, but as an adoptive father of four boys, I know few words say more than “My Son.” Although many granite and marble stones have more elegant verses, no words move me as deeply. When I die, these are the words I hope to hear.
