Cyprus groves and eucalyptus trees grow easily just north of Bolinas bay. Highway 1 thins as it moves through 13 turns. There is a small church that still has a outhouse. Fog covers the area during much of the summer, but at times gives way to bright blue skies. Matt had come with me when I was working there at the old church and he walked through the very small cemetery behind. There was a rumor of a mass grave of Indians being buried there, small pox to blame. I remember watching him move in and out between the tombstones. He never said much, but his mind was always thinking. It was in this place overlooking the bay and smelling the trees my foot pushed a shovel into the earth.

Redwood sawdust floated through the air. Boards are cut at 45-degree angles then glued and screwed together, forming a small rectangle. The bottom is attached.

More dirt is removed from the earth.

A small bag of ashes is inserted. The top enclosed them in. Screw holes are plugged and sanded.

My son took his last breath in his mothers’ arms. Then holding him, I could feel his warmth fading. It was like a dimmer switch slowly turning out a light. And then I didn’t feel his presents inside his body anymore.

It was at his funeral people, some of which I did not know, would stand up crying and tell their stories of Matt. It amazed me how he had affected so many. This small boy of almost nine had done something I had not realized before, he had touched other people the way he had touched me. A girl in his class said, “he never pulled my hair”. There were few words I could say, only just, “thank you for caring”. I remember staring into a fire that night, the void had come and would never go away.

Slowly the wooded box was laid in the three-foot deep hole. Dirt was dropped back in. Stepping in to compact the soil. The task was repeated over and over until it was done.

So from the first moment of laying eyes Matt, to the last bit of laying dirt over him, came the time when there was nothing left to do.