Raymond Russell parkSometimes I have this random desire to say something about Jackson’s death, out of the blue, to someone totally unsuspecting and completely innocent.

For example, today I invited my brother-in-law to join me and the kids at Raymond Russell park.  He asked, “Where is that park?”

And I answered, “Off IH10 West, take the Camp Bullis exit.”  But what I wanted to say was, “You know, the one right next to where Jackson is buried.”

It’s not like I expect people to remember where Jackson is buried … but this is an actual frame of reference in MY mind.  This is a critical and essential piece of information and a piece of me and it makes me sad other people cannot or would not understand if I were to say such a thing.  I wouldn’t say it to be mean.  I wouldn’t say it to make them feel uncomfortable.  I would just say it because that’s how I think of it.  Instead, I have to leave that part unspoken so everyone else can live in comfort.

And I guess that’s fine because there’s no possible way they could ever understand the depth of despair or the fact that it never ever ends.  It’s not constant (after 10 years) but it’s not gone and it will never be gone.  The place where my baby is buried is significant, it’s not forgettable, it’s important, it matters.  But it only matters a whole lot to me … and that is hard to accept sometimes.