My eyes widen, overfilled with tears that spill rhythmically one by one onto my cheeks, slowly rippling down the crevasses of my face to a pool at the end of my chin and jump into the barrenness of my chest.  I do not wipe my tears away.  I am not ashamed to cry.  I wear my pain proudly. 

       As much as I try to remember the way he lived, I am haunted by the sickening discovery of his sparsely clad body stretched across the living room sofa.  Cold gray skin covers his stiff, unresponsive shell.  His mouth slightly gaped, his eyes pointing upwards, frozen in sorrow.  I came too late.  I did not know, did not understand his pain.  And so, he traveled on without me. 
      "Live and Burn" was one of Kerry's mottos.  Experiencing Burning Man was one of his desires.  The Temple of Honor would give me a place to grieve, a place to pray, and a place to honor my son.  And so, below the green monkey tagged with the red heart, I create my memorial to Kerry.  First, I hang a t-shirt my sister Colleen has given me.  A white Fruit-of-the-Loom t-shirt covered in poor quality computer generated photos of my son, his face morphed by improper alignment.  A rainbow stretches across the back panel along with a line from Over the Rainbow, "Some day I'll wish upon a star and wake up where the clouds are far behind"  Tacky as it might be, I love this shirt.  I love the fact that my sister, Kerry's aunt, cared enough to create a tribute of admiration.  My eyes pierce with tears as I add a letter I wrote about my beautiful son, and attach to it a photo of Kerry holding his son, Jackson.  This becomes my place in the Temple of Honor.
      Crouched beside me, a women sets up a shrine for her son Chris.  Our sons were the same age.  We exchange chronicles of a turbulent era, recognizing the interchangeable pain and vulnerability of our son's lives.  Her son's drug-abused lifestyle and overdose bandaging his depression and my son's suicide completed by an overdose.  An overdose of sleeping pills, over-the-counter sleeping pills.  Three packages, ninety pills, crushed, mixed in his ice tea and swallowed.  No one seemed to question the motives of a distraught young man as he entered the 24-hour CVS local pharmacy.  No one wondered why he might want to purchase three packages of sleeping pill, his palms sweating as he handed cashier number 7 two twenty-dollar bills and said, "Keep the change." 

       Each day I would spend hours in the Temple of Honor.  I would sit in meditation and write in my journal and cry.  Reflecting on the twenty-three years I had with my son and pleading for an ongoing connection.  It is heavy, it is hard, it is healing.  It is everything I need. 
    On my last night at Burning Man I rest, kneeling in the desert sand and watch the temple burn.  In the crush of the crowd I go unnoticed, eclipsed by the throngs of joviality.  I scan the faces of the pack, knowing I am a stranger to them all.  Above me, the bright full moon glows.  Its massive full body dangles in front of me, just outside my reach.  So close that I can see with great detail the scattering of mare that define the face of the man trapped inside.  It was a full moon the night you chose to end your life, I thought, wondering if its power had somehow driven him over the edge. 

     The intensity of the blaze unbolts my pores and my body glistens, reflecting the fury of the flame.  Entranced by the towering smoke tunnels that spew from its core, their twisted dance leading upwards towards the black sky, my mind plays images of the last time I saw my son alive.  His beautiful, symmetrically-balanced face highlighted by the intensity of his crisp blue eyes, cheek-raised smile, and tone of his blush. "Ma, don't get upset," he teased.  "I'm a 23-year-old guy, I don't always get you."  The backwards jerk of his head and neck timed perfectly with the roll of his belly-deep laughter.  I was certain he was laughing at me. 
     Inside the temple, I slowly survey the array of commemorations loved ones left behind.  Beside a portrait of Buddha dangles a green monkey tagged with a red heart.  A shabby stuffed toy that, like the Velveteen Rabbit, looks as though he was loved real.  Above it a sticker reads, "Believe in the Power of Monkeys.  The sight of this spawns memories of my son's childhood and I smile, recalling how our pet bird ate an exotic prepackaged food labeled, "Monkey Chow."  For whatever reason, these two words always made us laugh.  Over and over again, Kerry and I would compete for the best rendition of "Monkey Chow."  I have since turned this into a game for Kerry's young son Jackson, and it too makes him roar with laughter.  It begins with a buldging-eyed stare as I slowly declare, "I AM SO HUNGRY,"  pausing to watch his wide-eyed reaction,  "I'M GONNA GET ME SOME," and in my deepest roar, "MMMONKEY CHHHOW!!!"  And then I eat his belly.  This belly eating business is quite ticklish and when you are two years old, the sillier the better. 

      It is the first time since my son's death that memories of him brings me a smile. 
      The first person to read my letter about Kerry is a man wearing only a baseball catcher's face mask, chest guard, shin guard, jock strap, cup and cleats.  And despite his well-guarded, protective gear, he is vulnerable enough to shed a tear. 

      A man wearing a hat that says "future" reads my tarot cards and tells me that there is a male guide beside me.  Always near.