Walking out after services, I hold onto Gabe’s arm. The little walkway into the cemetery is littered with acorns – little ball bearings that make me choose my way carefully.

Gabe steers me onto the grass, and we stand there a moment, while I catch my breath and look for Hank’s marker. I spot the cypress that is my landmark.

Last year’s grass is tan and unmown. I stumble a little bit once, but my grandson’s arm holds steady. It’s only him and me now, so I appreciate that I can lean on him.

Once we get to the cypress, it’s easy to find Hank’s plot. There are notes covering his gravestone and littering the ground. Gabe makes sure that I am stable. Then he collects the messages, smooths each one out, and hands them to me.

This week, there is nothing new. There seem to be as many messages expressing adoration as vitriol. I put the slips of paper into my purse.

It’s been forty years he’s been gone now. He’s achieved some kind of immortality as a focus for people’s passions.

I don’t bring flowers any more.