We put a park bench by Dad's grave. There at the head is a large Edward's Limestone bolder, serving as a temporary marker. Against it rests freah flowers and candles provided by his grieving widdow. The sun sets just beyond that stone. Across the creek we hear the blatting of sheep and howling of dogs as they settle in for the night at the neighbor's farm. Then silence.
Sometimes I am sitting on the bench alone. Other times, family members add their graceful presence. Either way, I don't feel alone. He is here too.
I did not know how I would feel about having Dad buried on the hill, a short stroll from the farm house. Now I do. It is my favorite place in the world. It is my favorite time 0f the day. And it is always close at hand, when I want it. No drive across endless highways and parkways to enter gateways and cemetery throughways to end up trying to recall exactly where... and then realizing how long it has been since your last visit.
As a child, cemeteries creeped me out. Not this one. It seems to belong here. Our family cemetery connects me to my past, my family, and my own ultimate future. I belong.
About Me
- Mark Butland
- I'm a full-time professor at the local college. I teach people to be better communicators in meetings and public presentations. My consulting business aims to enhance lines of communication.
Here's Lookin' at You, Grave!
Dad stares down into his grave, pleased with himself
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