I always care. I don't always know.

Warning: Do not listen to Death Cab for Cutie when you are extremely prone to nostalgia and any degree of melancholy.


I like Thanksgiving. I like turkey and family and stuffing and organized leaf jumping. But I went so willingly to Hurricane this year because I knew it was time to visit Ivins again.


Ivins is where Trent is buried. The last time I went was over a year ago, just a few months after he died. They didn't have a headstone yet or any marker and I didn't know where his grave was. I walked from plot to plot, finally stopping at the west end of the cemetery. There were things there that made me think, but I didn't know.


This year there was still no headstone, but I had directions and pictures from K. I went to the grocery store in Hurricane the night before for flowers--small pink and burgandy roses with a few alstromeria. Not bad for small town Utah. (I consciously chose the girliest wrap available.)

My dad drove me out to Ivins on Thanksgiving morning. (I don't like driving the family suburban and he needed a break from family together time.) Thirty minutes there. Dad thought I should leave a poem or something. I did leave something--just a few sentences, copied from my Christmas present from Trent. I took the flowers out of their wrapping (because it wasn't girly, just ugly), and left them at the side of the large red rock that marks his place. The note was underneath. I was only there for maybe ten minutes.


And then thirty minutes back to Hurricane and family and organized leaf jumping.


Hey Trent: I love you.