This post may be a bit...rambly. I'm currently halfway through my second glass of an excellent chardonnay.
It's Father's Day and as expected, I am missing my father. Crazy? No. Pain in the ass? Yes. My husband is a fantastic father and he deserves a fantastic day. That's hard to deliver when you're crying every hour. So in an effort to get it all out of the way, I went to the cemetery today.
Damn, that was a mistake.
I brought flowers and a bottle of water, since there is a vase affixed to my dads headstone. Actually, there was a vase. Now there is a large, muddy hole and several wasps. He'd appreciate that, I'm sure. What he would not appreciate is how I jammed the sunflowers in the hole, pissed that someone would dig out a fucking vase from a headstone. Seriously, call me. I will buy you a damned vase. (And break it over your grave-robbing head, you fucker.) But stuff them down a wasp nest I did, because had I brought those flowers home, I would have burst into tears, every single time I looked at them. Sort of what we were trying to avoid. Luckily, I did not get stung. (bitten? Wasps bite, right?)
All (hopefully humorous) ranting aside, I went because I needed to feel a connection to him. It's been a long time. I wanted to feel his presence again. But you know what? He's not there. I felt nothing. It was just mud and grass, marble and wasps. I'm sure there is a deep analogy somewhere in there, but I'm tipsy and you shouldn't attempt analogies while drinking. They never make sense. Sadly, I know this from experience.
Point is, he's gone. I know a lot of people take comfort from visiting the grave of a loved one. I am not one of those people. He's not there. He's in a better place and I know that, but I still miss him. I'm allowed to rejoice in his freedom and still miss him. To be glad he's with God and sad that he's not with us. And I am all of the above.
I'm not going back. I hope that doesn't make me a bad daughter. I prefer to find him in my son's smile, my daughter's eyes and my memories. Also, I really need get a handle on this.
It's Father's Day and as expected, I am missing my father. Crazy? No. Pain in the ass? Yes. My husband is a fantastic father and he deserves a fantastic day. That's hard to deliver when you're crying every hour. So in an effort to get it all out of the way, I went to the cemetery today.
Damn, that was a mistake.
I brought flowers and a bottle of water, since there is a vase affixed to my dads headstone. Actually, there was a vase. Now there is a large, muddy hole and several wasps. He'd appreciate that, I'm sure. What he would not appreciate is how I jammed the sunflowers in the hole, pissed that someone would dig out a fucking vase from a headstone. Seriously, call me. I will buy you a damned vase. (And break it over your grave-robbing head, you fucker.) But stuff them down a wasp nest I did, because had I brought those flowers home, I would have burst into tears, every single time I looked at them. Sort of what we were trying to avoid. Luckily, I did not get stung. (bitten? Wasps bite, right?)
All (hopefully humorous) ranting aside, I went because I needed to feel a connection to him. It's been a long time. I wanted to feel his presence again. But you know what? He's not there. I felt nothing. It was just mud and grass, marble and wasps. I'm sure there is a deep analogy somewhere in there, but I'm tipsy and you shouldn't attempt analogies while drinking. They never make sense. Sadly, I know this from experience.
Point is, he's gone. I know a lot of people take comfort from visiting the grave of a loved one. I am not one of those people. He's not there. He's in a better place and I know that, but I still miss him. I'm allowed to rejoice in his freedom and still miss him. To be glad he's with God and sad that he's not with us. And I am all of the above.
I'm not going back. I hope that doesn't make me a bad daughter. I prefer to find him in my son's smile, my daughter's eyes and my memories. Also, I really need get a handle on this.