There is no headstone on my father’s grave, only a simple marker thrust in the ground. No name, no dates of birth or death, this generic marker merely implies his service in the Navy. It looks plastic, although I did not touch it.
He’s been dead for a year. The lack of a headstone, I am told, is only temporary, the predictable consequence of red tape. It is the inaction of officialdom, which is footing the bill.
It’s a quaint little boneyard, tranquil even; a setting the words “final resting place” might conjure. I paid my first visit there recently. Or, my first since last year’s funeral. My father (or his earthly remains) is spending eternity at the foot of a gentle slope alongside headstones marked Kennedy, Manz, and Anger. This last is surrounded by plants with long spiny leaves resembling a strain of yucca. They seemed out of place, more appropriate to an arid, western climate. (Perhaps you can tell I don’t know much about plant life.)
I remembered approximately where the gravesite was, but still wandered around for five or ten minutes, searching. Finally some guy approached me. “Can I help you?”
The guy turned out to be a member of the cemetery’s Board of Directors. He guided me to the grave I sought.
There are a couple of large stones a few feet from my father’s grave. The site did not need weeding or watering, so I took a seat on one. I did not speak to or commune with my dad’s spirit. I just soaked in the atmosphere, reflecting on a long and full life that had been lived, and enjoyed, and now was over.
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