Monday, May 23, 2005

A place of his own, for me

I wish there was a place I could go to, to visit with my father, to be in the near. It's the absence that cremation leaves, no certain place to go, no ritualistic place to go. No grave to visit. If there were one, I'd go there today, now. I'd spend some time and tend to the place. I'd breathe the air from around the place. I'd put my hand on something concrete there. I'd bring flowers and photographs, I'd bring a silver chain and an anchor. I'd bring things that rain would weather but I'd keep it clean for him, for us. Of course, he's everything and everywhere, he is me, but I want a single thing and a certain spot. I want something I can touch and breathe. I want something I can lean against. I want a place where, even though I know he won't answer back, I can talk to him all the same. Out loud, and no one will look twice at me; they'll know and they'll understand what I'm doing. Maybe this is what drives people to donate a bench or plant a tree in the park - these become their place, their remembering and go-to place.

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