I decided to skip work today. Figured the world would get by just fine with one less telemarketer anyway. Leaving my apartment, I begin my walk. The drizzle bites my skin as hard as it freezes under my boots. I hate the winter. By the time I reach the cemetery my hair is soaked, probably frozen. I didn’t bother to put on a jacket – I wanted to feel the cold.
He would have been twenty-one today.

Before my boy died, I always thought the tombstones were unsightly nuisances. They were nothing but rocks with names on them taking up space. Now that one of those names belongs to my son though, I understand why these stones are so important. This damn piece of marble is all I have left of him. It’s all I have left of either of them.

I’ll never forget coming home to that inferno. Our beautiful Victorian house, just painted teal like my wife always wanted. I can still hear her screaming – helpless to save herself or our child. Even from the street, the air was dry and unbearably hot. I could only imagine what must have been happening to my family inside. Squinting my eyes and coughing from the smoke I ran toward the house. Feeling invincible, I was going to run through the front door and find a way to pull them out of there. I had to.

From then on all I remember is how the crackling sound turned into an all-consuming roar. It felt like an atomic bomb went off in front of my face. Next thing I knew I was in the hospital. When the nurse noticed I had woken up she ran over to my bed. The first thing anyone said to me was that I was lucky to be alive. It used to make me laugh, thinking about that. Now it makes me weep.

The doctor would later explain to me that our water heater exploded right above the gas line. She told me that the combination of natural gas in the air and my wife cooking dinner in the kitchen would have been enough to ignite the entire house. It didn’t matter. My wife and child were gone. Everything we owned, every picture, letter and piece of clothing was incinerated along with my family.

These memories run like a chill down my spine. The freezing rain doesn’t register in comparison. I can feel only my fingertips as I drag them over the smooth marble tombstone. Their names, carved delicately into the pearly stone, will be there forever. Some day I will join them there. Already on my knees beside the grave, I pray for this. It is the only thing I have ever prayed for.

Eventually the cold becomes too much and I know I need to go inside. I give the tombstone a firm squeeze between my arms. I don’t want to let go, but the shivers are becoming too much to handle. I begin to walk again. Down the street I see a bar, “Smokler and Son’s.” I walk through the door and take a seat. Feeling the urge to talk, I say to the bartender, “It’s my son’s birthday today. Twenty one.”

“That’s great man, bring him in and I’ll give him a round on the house!”

“Wish I could. Just going to be me today though.”

“Sorry to hear that,” he tells me as he changes the batteries in the remote.

“So am I. Believe me, so am I.” I exhale deeply and try to keep myself composed. He looks my way again. “I’ll take a whiskey.”

“Here you go pal.”

The amber in my glass warms my throat.

"Keep them coming."

I hear only the crackling of wood as I stare into the fireplace.