They finally put the bronze grave marker on my dad’s grave. It’s pretty simple: name, full date of birth and date of death. Followed by an inscription that I picked out. I think it finally added closure to it all. Of course there’s an empty spot next to his, but I hope to never have to use that one for a loooong time to come. It’s interesting, life goes on. The sun also rises, and the world burns and churns with it’s usual savagery. It took me probably a three months, but I finally got a secondary good ‘cry’ just the other week. It was after I went to harbor freight tools and just saw all the tools that my dad would of loved. So I talked to my mom about it, and she said Dad made her go with him all the time there, he loved it. And we just reminisced about him, and it just finally happened. Tears welled up, and I think I haven’t done that since after father’s day (now that was a bad day for me).
All in all, I think it added an amount of closure to me. I’m glad not a single day goes by that something reminds me of him. I think if that were to happen, well I just would be distraught. It’s kind of analogous to a parent who just decided to no longer think about you or love you. At least to me, it would be more devastating to know that I had that in me to just forget, or to have no feeling. What is more interesting is now I have some perspective. When I would go with him to visit my grandfather’s grave (his dad), I did not know what it felt like to be him. To be walking in his shoes, to know what it is like to lose parents. To me, he was grandpa! I loved my grandpa, and was his most favorite little grand kid. But I really didn’t understand, or know what emotions or things that were going on in my Dad’s head when we would visit them at Forest Lawn. And now, I think I do. There’s no way to describe it, I guess the closest words to do it justice would be, “quiet contemplation”. You just sort of remember, and wish, and dream, all rolled into one.
Oh how I missed his coffee.
Which segues to my next topic, making coffee and cutting mangos! Oh how does this relate to anything? Well, it relates to everything! Growing up, my dad would always cut the fruits. The watermelons, and especially the mango’s. He would get me the best slices and go after the seed. So I literally associated cutting up the mango with the ‘man of the household’ duty/chore. The other day I was cutting up mangos for Chrissie, and I sort of chuckled to myself. I guess I assumed the mantle of the official mango cutter of the house hold! But my dad would always make the coffee as well. Towards the end, when he was unable to, he would always ask my mom to make me some coffee when I visited. So when I make a mean tasty cup of joe, I guess I’m reminded of the man I’ve become. It’s nothing fancy, or earth shattering. I haven’t discovered a cure for Aids or Cancer. But the simple act of cutting up some fruit, or making a good cup of coffee just makes me feel accomplished. And as stupid as that sounds, I’d like to think that by doing those things, I’ll become more and more like him. To follow in his footseps, if only for a little while.
Ooh… I take that back…third good cry just happened about 1 minutes ago in writing this.