Honoring the dead

Yesterday afternoon, I went to reflect over my father's grave (he should be buried in the family plot, but I don't know), over my favorite aunt's grave, my grandparents' grave, my mother's grave, and over the hole they had just dug in the ground that was about to receive my ex father-in-law's body within the hour, and I could not think any further. I stood in front of the closed doors of the church where I was married, besides the hearse that had carried my ex father-in-law's body, but that was empty now and had its doors wide open, surrounded by empty cars belonging to a family that could, that would misunderstand my presence there.

And so when I heard a church door start to open, I turned around and walked away towards my home without looking back, hoping that the person would not recognize me and call out. And the person did not. And I walked along the river, the sun was shining on its surface and on me, the wind blowing in my face; the air smelled of fresh fish and clean water.

And I came back to my home, and my cats, and my flowers, content that I had done what I thought was right.

And if he could see me up there, or wherever, he would understand.