Visiting hours

Hung out with Dad today.  I started crying on the way to the cemetery -- I thought things were supposed to easier with time, not more difficult.  Once I got there I put down a towel and took a seat.  At first all I could do was cry and try to catch my breath.  When I finally composed myself I told him, "I don't know what to say, Pop."

It's pretty awkward sitting by a marker-less grave.  The stone isn't up yet and the only thing identifying it is a temporary name tag stuck into the ground in a plastic holder.  As well as the little American flag we placed there on his birthday. 

The splotchy grass, some of which is dead, and weeds rising from the soil do not make for a very dignified resting place.  But the environment was serene enough.  It was quiet; only the sound of kids playing outside of a nearby school filled the air.  I sat with Dad for about a half hour before I said anything else.  "Please don't shit on me," I pleaded with some sort of raptor curiously hovering in the air above me.  It struck me that Dad would be amused by that.  "Right on Pop, I'd think it was funny too.  If it happened to someone else."