Cemetery

I went to my dad's grave two days ago. For those of you keeping track, he died 5.5 years ago, and yes, I am just now getting to his grave. But this is the first time in since a few months after his funeral that I was back in that small town.

I snuck into town. I'm not sure it's possible to sneak into a town that is just a smidge bigger than my high school, but I wanted to see my aunt (my mom's sister), my uncle, and cousin. I knew if the rest of my family found out I was there I would feel obligated to see them all... Stopping by the cemetery was probably a giveaway, but I didn't care.

Let me tell you, being there was weird. You know that scene in movies where the lone person walks across the cemetery in an open overcoat and the only thing you can hear is the crunch of the brown dead grass under their feet? That was me. And it was surreal.

My dad is bured next to my grandparent (his parents). I stood there, staring at his headstone. It had everything that mattered to him on it: The American flag, his service in Vietnam, his service as a firefighter. I'm not a big fan of burying people. I think it's a waste of money and resources, but standing there.... It was just weird. He was under the ground. Sure, it was just his body in a wooden box encased in a big cement vault. But it was there. Just like it was on the day of his funeral.

I could fee that day. Sitting under a tent in 115 degree heat with my brother and stepfamily. Sweating. Crying. It's a tradition that firefighters have a gun salute at their funerals. He did. And it was done by the people he had stood side by side with for almost 40 years. They were guys I grew up with. They were crying.

So I stood there. I cleaned off my grandparents headstone. I cleaned off Dad's. I remember watching my mom do the same to her parent's headstone. And there I was, doing it for my dad.

I was all grown up.