A Visit to My Parents That Was a Long Time Coming
In the review of my life, I always felt I fell short as a son. I never did anything horrific; however, I always felt like I never did enough, especially when my mother was sick.
Most of that was left to my sister.
I remember going to the movies with my mother when I was young, mortified, thinking, “What if someone from school saw me?”
(see, this is what I’m talking about — what an asshole)
Now, as a parent, I realize how much spending time with me meant to her. Painfully selfish on my part.
Ok, you usually come to this site to read something funny; this self-reflection is depressing for you to read.
Let me cheer things up a bit.
Let’s talk about cemeteries.
After my mother died, I never went to visit her grave. The only time back was when my father passed away (enough with the dead parents, Al).
My daughter was born shortly after my father died, then two sons in succession.
In all those years since their births, not once did I think to take them to visit their grandparents (see? asshole).
The first Christmas after my marriage was basically over, I finally decided to go visit my parents’ graves.
It was a bitter cold day, dreary, the sky filled with gray clouds. A few days before, a vendor at work sold grave blankets, so I bought one (did you know they don’t look like blankets? I did not).
Previously, I asked my sister where the graves were. She gave me detailed instructions on how to find them. When I entered the cemetery, I went to where I thought they’d be.
They weren’t.
These were the days before cell phones, so back to my car I went. A few miles down the road, I found a gas station and called my sister. She repeated her directions, and I went back to the cemetery.
Of course, I could not find them. I went back again, made a second call, then actually a third explanation, but still could not find them.
The bitter cold froze my cheeks as I wandered, a confused ghost, between the headstones. Then I came across a name I recognized from high school. I wasn’t sure if it was the same person, but sadly the age was about right.
Still, I hoped it wasn’t him.
After my frozen penance, I came across a small gravestone, a child. The child’s last name was the same as a bar I went to once or twice on Route 36.
So I placed the blanket on this unknown grave, and asked him to tell my parents I was there.
Now, these past few years, my brother, my sister, and I visit our parents graves around Christmas.
My sister brings the grave blanket. We talk for a while among ourselves, reminisce about our childhood, and talk about our parents.
One year, after we said something about our father, my brother’s cell phone rang.
“Well,” I said, “I guess Mom has something to add.”
These visits have since given me something to think about.
Do I want to be buried, or be cremated?
I’m not sure what the church has to say about it; the rules change over time. Even though we were born Catholic, my brother is now a Baptist, my sister is a Lutheran (because, she said, they let her sing in their choir).
I am still a Catholic (because you dance with the one who brought you).
It also made me think of my maternal grandmother. I was young when she died, but I remember the cemetery she was buried in. It was the biggest piece of enclosed land I had ever seen. Rolling hills of green, pockmarked with headstones, seemed to go on forever.
The reason I think of her now is that I don’t have a clue how I would go about finding her grave. The cemetery, Green-Wood, is four hundred and eight acres with five hundred sixty thousand permanent residents, per their website.
Although, I feel the term “permanent” is redundant; I don’t think any of the residents think, “This place has really gone downhill — we’re moving to Florida.”
With cremation, I can divvy myself up and give each of my kids a little Dad container, something to wave at as they walk out the door (not too creepy, right?).
Point is, and maybe other families are more diligent when it comes to visiting deceased relatives, a few generations from now, no one will know where we are.
I will have an ego-driven blog that will be out there for as long as the internet exists, so if anyone is interested, they could find me.
But sometime, down the road, it might be nice to see a familiar face drop by around the holidays.
Photo by Richard Sagredo on Unsplash
