It was my Dad’s birthday and out grocery shopping, I decided to put some fresh flowers on his grave. I have to admit that it is sometime, maybe two years, since I have visited Dad’s grave. Not that he is out of mind, few day go by when I don’t think of him or Mr FD doesn’t mention him.
So flowers in hand, I drove to the cemetery to visit with Dad. Except, his neighbourhood has changed a little in recent times – lots of new occupants. A few have gone from solitary occupant to dual occupancy.
It is a garden cemetery with only flat memorial plaques, so it can be a little confusing. Well, that is me excuse anyway. I wandered up and down a row, mumbling to myself, remembering some of the people I passed. Eventually, I stopped and asked Dad, “where the hell are you?”
I had to perserve. I mean it wasn’t like I could go home with my flowers and admit to Mr FD that I had misplaced my own dead father.
I was in one row too far. Once I went back and started again, I found Dad, right where we had left him. I am sure I could hear him laughing at me; he had always known I have no sense of direction.
Thankfully, there was an empty flower container nearby which I filled with my flowers, filling it with water my drink bottle. Then I pulled a little grass from around his plaque, but he was looking pretty good.
On my hands and knees on top of poor Dad I chatted as I tidied, bringing him up to date on the family, then I realised that I was kneeling on my father and had to laugh again.
I do miss him. It’s been 15 years and I still miss him as much now as the day he died. We have good memories though, and one of the most repeated phrases in the family is “As Grandpa used to say…”
Love you Dad.