I put a wreath, and a flag, and a solar rose on my dad’s grave this weekend. And, I wondered, as I shoved the stake for the rose down into the ground, why it is that every time I go to dad’s grave it is obvious that no one else has been there since I left the last time. I take mom once a month, and I try to get there once in between our visits. Not because I haven’t worked through the grief process, or because it makes me feel important, but because I remember the way dad used to tend the graves of our grandparents, and how he didn’t want anyone to think no one cared, no one missed them. I think that he would have expected, and appreciated, that I am carrying on the job == finding sweet little flower arrangements and that ridiculous solar rose to brighten up a rather solitude spot on the outskirts of the city. But, I cant help wonder, where are all the people he helped? Drove places, bailed out of jail, sat with, gave money too, built things for and with. Seriously. I dont expect them to all flock to his grave on a regular basis, but on Fathers Day or Memorial Day or around the Holidays, on his birthday or his and moms anniversary, wouldn’t it make sense if the people who supposedly loved him, who wailed and cried when he passed, took a minute and put a flower or a seashell or a picture, on his grave?
Now, I know not everyone is cemetary comfortable. Probably because I went with dad when he tended the grandparents graves, I am a little more comfortable than most in there, but really, a minute to brush the grass clippings off his name, or say a prayer, or cuss him out for dying before you were ready to lose him, something people. Something.