This is inscribed on a bench in the coastal woods of southern Alabama. It's aside a well-worn biking path and one of many seats that dot the trail every quarter mile or so. Each holds a tribute contained in the space of a few wooden boards. There is always a name, sometimes dates. Occasionally who they are from.

This path holds the kind of traffic from people who ride their bikes for the sociability. They are not timing their miles but are there to get their hearts pumping a bit, hear the bird calls in the salty marshes adjacent to the ocean, and spend time with friends either temporary or over years.

I'm passing through a forest of ghosts. There are bits of the people named on the benches left in here. Their friends remembered them enough to choose the words, pay the money, fill out the form. Maybe a tiny piece of them is hovering, watching, sitting on the bench named in their memory.

Of the dozens I passed this one stood out. There were no dates but I knew it was a child. I guess he was one of those humans who had a difficult time of it. This is most certainly projection as on this particular day I'm taking a more-vigorous-than-usual ride due to a very rough morning with my own young one. For him, too, feelings and competition and all the work of being human is harder than most. He struggles now and will struggle even more in the future. I watched it in the first few hours his eyes were open today as I have many, many mornings of his life so far.

I wonder for the mother of this one. What a valiant thing to do, to memorialize a stunning difficult sentiment into words. She didn't have to go to the work of putting her history out here. She didn't have to say anything. She could have stayed in bed. Maybe she did and this was the way she started to get out. Maybe this was the beginning of the healing. Maybe it only came years after. Maybe it was the starting line. Maybe it was the period on a particular phase of grief.

Care about me, remember all the wonderful things, but don't keep thinking you should have done anything differently. Did she imagine him saying that to her? Or did she have the strength to see that was the way she would survive? Whether it was because he was sick, body or mind, or something else entirely.

This is a way to look at loss. Let it be as it is. But don't let it consume. Don't let the bad parts overwhelm. At least not all the time. Make in on balance. Don’t spend all your grief on yourself wondering what you could have done differently. These are all tremendously easy things to say as a passerby and not someone deep in the tunnel.

Miss me. Open your hand and let the swirling ball of regret and guilt and unfulfilled wishes rise in the air. Wave to it. Cry a little as it ascends far enough to blink out.

Let me go. Turn around and take a walk. Listen to your favorite song. Turn up the sides of your lips even if it's the last thing you want to do. Pluck out a memory of the one you miss when they had shining eyes and full-mouth smile.

Crumble and repeat. Do it again and over once more.

Miss me, and let me go.

Inspired by events in Gulf State Park, Alabama.