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.
