It’s as tall as my knees and just as wide. Dug from the earth, the color of earth, and carved with a  name: Nick Carnes.

Roxie and I walk by it every day, nestled in Sawyer Point Park, a stone’s throw from the I-471 overpass, nestled among burgundy coleus plants and something I don’t recognize—tall and skinny, with a burst of thin, pointy leaves at the top, like a plant from a Dr. Seuss book. A third plant with broad leaves bigger than three hands balances the tall one, brings the eye back down.

Somebody loved him.

The smaller carving under his name says that he died during Operation Enduring Freedom, one more stupid war in the stupid wars of my lifetime, beginning with the one in the hot and wet on the other side of the planet, the one I protested, thinking I was so grown up at 13, with my black armband.

His obituary says he was from Dayton, Kentucky, 25 years old, a staff sergeant in the Army National Guard. He was killed on August 26, 2007, 24 days short of his first wedding anniversary.

Macklemore sings, “I heard you die twice/ Once when they bury you in the grave/ And the second time is the last time/ That somebody mentions your name”

So today, as Roxie and I passed the heap of discarded plants the Cincinnati Parks workers pile under the I-471 overpass, I stopped to pull a pink canna lily and two large green leaves.

Turning back toward the stone, Roxie protested that we were going the wrong way. We should be heading toward the big grassy field on the other side of the brick arches.

“We’ll go there. We’re going back this way first.”

I laid the leaves on the stone and placed the flower on top. I said, “Nick Carnes.”

I said his name.

 Chewing the Cud of Good

Thankful for mentors.