Here's what I wrote on the prompt Visit:
I never knew how I should feel about visiting my dad at the cemetery. At first I would go and sit by his gravestone with the view of the pond, talk to him about my day, laugh about how much the geese loved to leave him presents on his stone, and just sit.
At first, it made me feel connected to him in some way—like when I went to the cemetery, I was visiting him. Sometimes, it made me sad to think of my dad like this—buried in the ground, in a place where I would never see his face again. It would bring me flashbacks of his funeral. The rain poured down like cold stones as we ran from the car to the tent at his grave-site. It rained on his wedding day.
But this is no longer my reality. Going to the cemetery is just a quick stop to say hello. It’s just a minute to walk around peacefully, looking at the beautiful trees and that pond with the silly geese. Maybe it’s bringing my dad flowers; maybe it’s just looking at the beautiful headstone.
I don’t go that often anymore. I feel connected to my dad every day. I feel him everywhere. I feel him in my laugh. I see him in my youngest sister’s smile and the squint of her eyes. I see his likeness in my middle sister’s eyes and the color of her skin. I feel him in the craziness of life when his voice whispers in my head that everything will be alright. I dream of his hugs. I feel him in my heart every day. I love having a place to visit if I want to, but I don’t need to anymore. I know that he is with me every second of every day. I like that. I’m better with that.