My father’s grave

December 21, 2021

Twenty-three-years ago today, our father drew his last breath.

From their bedroom, our stepmother Carole shouted: He’s not breathing!” We rushed in and saw the final pulse of his neck.

Four days ago, I saw his grave for the first time when we laid Carole to rest with him at Eagle Point National Cemetery.

Having been there while he passed, I felt no need to attend his funeral, which had been scheduled for a week or so later. I had returned to Portland and told my stepmother that I would be there if she wanted, but she said she had plenty of support and would honor my choice.

My freshest memory of him has always been when I took off a ring after his passing. Carole was struggling to remove it and asked If I could do so. I gingerly tried to work it loose, then realized he couldn’t feel anything; I pulled hard until it slid off. With that, he was gone.

I left for the guest house before the funeral staff removed his body; I didn’t want to see him under a sheet. Not wanting to see him in an open casket is why I skipped the funeral.

Last Friday I looked into his open grave. The long black tray that would cradle Carole above him for eternity obscured any evidence of him below.

I’m glad it did.