It was a beautiful sunny day and I decided it was time. I hadn’t been there since the funeral. I parked the car and walked toward the entrance to the church. I knew the best way to remember where to find him was to retrace the steps of the funeral procession.

His grave is still unmarked.

I don’t remember a lot about the service. I remember making eye contact with Lynette as I walked down the aisle, my arm linked with my mother’s – holding each other up.  When my eyes met Lynette’s, I saw that she was already crying. I knew then that I wasn’t going to be able to look at anyone for the entire service, if I was to try to maintain my composure. Since my brothers and I would be giving the eulogy, composure seemed important.

After the service we all processed up the hill, straight up, and to the right. I remembered that (at least I thought so). I knew he was buried under a tree; I remembered thinking that was nice. So on this sunny day, six months later, I took those same steps up the hill, and there, under a tree was a new(ish) grave. I laid down on my back in the grass beside it, somehow imagining this was Dad’s “view” now – the tree, the clouds, the blue sky.


I tried talking to him there. I do talk to him now and then, and I wondered if talking to him there, where his body was, would feel different. It didn’t. It felt forced, actually – like that was what I was supposed to do. Like in the movies.

I heard some people talking nearby and I sat up, feeling a bit self-conscious. Maybe they found it odd that I was laying down in the cemetery.

I suddenly became amused by the possibility that I was actually laying next to the wrong grave, trying to talk to the wrong person. Dad always teased me about my sense of direction. He’d have been having a good hardy laugh over me weeping over some other guy’s grave.

I suppressed a laugh. It felt like we were sharing a joke, he and I…and we were.

I realized then that for me, dad would never really be there, in that cemetery plot. Those are just bones. That is nothing to me now.

 

Later, I was telling my mother and Ryan about my thought – of dad laughing his butt off if I were at the wrong grave. Ryan laughed and said he’d had the same exact thought when he visited.

We are going to be okay, all of us – one inappropriate laugh at a time.

 

New to this blog?  Read what it’s all about here.

 

 

One Comment on “Day 82/365 Grave Humor

  1. Pingback: 94/365 The Day the House Blew Up – Dipped In It

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: