Dear Mrs. DuBose, I visited your son today

Dear Mrs. DuBose,

I just wanted you to know I visited your son today.

It was quiet except for a child's laughter as he or she jumped into a backyard pool as that child's mother watched on – just within sight of Sam's freshly dug and still unmarked grave. It was peaceful even, except for the whir of the two riding lawn mowers cutting grass – one driven by the man who dug your son's grave yesterday at Landmark Memorial Gardens in Evendale.

As you summoned a strength no mother should have to bear, to watch the video that showed University of Cincinnati Police Officer Ray Tensing fire a single fatal gunshot into your oldest son's head, I wanted to let you know that Sam is at peace in the cemetery's Garden of Love section. His feet will forever face the American flag raised in the middle of the cemetery, said Joe Luster.

Luster is the man who waited patiently to place the dirt on his casket after you and your family and the 100-plus mourners said your final goodbyes.

Perhaps you know all of this already. Perhaps you have made your own peace with Sam's death. Your unshakeable faith in God, your belief in truth and your trust in the unity of your city seem to have helped you on this journey.

I don't know about that. I do not possess your faith.

As I stood over the mound of dirt, I just kept thinking I can't imagine your pain. As a mother of two daughters, I cannot fathom either of my girls dying before me. The thought brings a lump to my throat. I cannot think of it for too long.

But to watch your child's death and to hear him utter his last words: "I didn't even do nothing," – well, I know no words for that.

And yet you found them.

As I drove around the 170-acre cemetery looking for Sam's grave, I listened as you addressed the media after the press conference and public release of the video.

"I'm so thankful that everything was uncovered," you said after reciting a prayer and praising God. "Everything is being revealed."

I sat for a little while longer in my car and recalled what I found to be the most poignant moment during Sam's funeral. That moment when your oldest daughter choked on emotion and tears, and struggled as she stood before the congregation to tell them about her little brother.

You did what mothers do, you stood and walked up the stairs and put your arms around her. And just under your breath, the microphone caught your words, meant only for her:

"It'll be alright, baby."

And with that she was able to say her goodbye.

Mother to mother, thank you for that. Thank you for showing this mother a path through this valley of grief. Thank you for your courage and your wisdom and your faith.

I also wanted to let you know that there are two stone benches under a maple tree just feet from Sam's grave where you can sit and rest when you visit Sam.

With respect and admiration,

Chris Graves