It started with a gravestone. My own. This was before I’d read Spoon River Anthology, which is a wonderful collection of poetry. This was just me on the computer one day, Googling myself. There it was – my gravestone. Matthew Michael Ritter. Already dead, of course – died at the age of only 12 or 13. Still, I felt a compulsion to visit that grave – until I learned it was 300 miles away. So I forgot about it for a while. (more…)