This week we had two weddings and a funeral. The weddings we knew about--the funeral we didn't. As things happen, we were unable to attend the weddings, but this morning, I stood with almost no one I knew to offer support to a child who lost his mother. It was a beautiful service.
As the child set a flower on his mother's casket, it reminded me of my youth, when I, having just turned eight-years old, watched as adults, my siblings, and cousins stood beside the casket of my father on a cold day in February, over forty-three years ago.
Suddenly, I was that eight-year old kid, thinking even though I'd lost my father, he was okay. He was in a good place and I'd see him again. I still believe that--it's just having more than four decades separate the child I was then and the father and husband I am now, I look at his passing, as well as my mother's passing, differently. I realize all the things I missed, all the questions left unanswered, all the memories never made.
Thanks to a caring neighbor, my dad's name is found among other veterans at the cemetery at the memorial. I need to thank him for that act of kindness. I also stopped by the Whitaker's headstone. They were both forces of nature, and are missed.
As the sun rose in the sky and family and friends left after the service, I looked around and noticed how beautiful our home-town cemetery is. Of course, I'd like to avoid taking up permanent residency there for many many years. I mean, it's not that beautiful...
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