Four miles outside of town on a lonely country road, just around a hairpin curve to the left, lies Cedar Falls Cemetery. It's over two hundred years old, filled with brooding old oaks that tower over the graves and shelter those resting beneath that hallowed ground. It’s a lonely, foreboding place that seems to take you back in time as you walk between the irregular rows of old and faded headstones.
On the far left as you pull into the drive, along the fence row, lie seventeen graves whose occupants share my last name. I have come today to see them, along with my aging father. We visit our family a few weeks before Christmas each year to clean their graves and place small, colorful wreaths against the stones, to make them part of our Christmas celebration and to tell their spirits that they are not forgotten.
As dad and I pulled weeds and cleaned fallen branches from the graves, he told me what he expected of me when he was gone. It’s not a subject I enjoy talking about. But at his age he feels it’s necessary to reassure himself that his son will carry on our traditions after his death, and to reassure his son that his death is nothing to fear.
“I hope you’ll always do this, Luke. It meant a lot to your grandparents to take care of our family graves, and it means a lot to me as well. I trust you, Donnie, not to let it go when I’m gone.”
“No, sir. I won’t let it go, Pop. I’ll do it every year just like you always have.”
Looking into the fading blue eyes of a man who has meant everything to me, I was suddenly struck by an almost overwhelming grief. I felt the emptiness of his absence from my life and it broke my heart, and I had to turn away from him to hide my tears.
Article comments
1 - SHARK
Donnie, this is a really nice piece of writing. A good reminder to treasure The Now.
Thanks.
2 - Elvira Black
Donnie:
That was beautiful. I'm sure your children cherish you as much as you do your wonderful dad.