It had been nearly three months since the burial, and the Friday before Fathers' Day was timely to visit Dad's grave for the first time since. The day of the service, straddling March and April, had been unseasonably hot. Not typical, whatever you think, we told the Eastern mourners. Thus the weather for my visit the other day perplexes some visitors: mid-June with solid clouds, flaunting their brief reign with the appearance of frontal "chunk" before summer kicks in, and the grace of longer daylight proportionately beyond nippy.

I obtained a map embellished with directions to the grave while observing the constant business, scattered around the grounds, of final rest: individuals, a funeral or two, groundskeepers. I was on foot, which was fine, but the directions had me "parking" in one lane and implied my quest was nearby. No, I know from the locations of the statues as indicated I was where they told me to go. Now if not so mobile Dad (go ahead, excoriate me) would complete this operation. Where was he?

The curb number was apparent but the row I was given was as vague as our understanding of "beyond", with the stone markers worn down. I flagged down a grounds keeper and here was Dad just about to the next lane. As we talk to pets, as we rehearse future social encounters, I said whatever I did over the stone for my benefit. The marker was true to a lot of Dad's lifetime demeanor of self-effacement, being quite snug with several others. I left to do some laundry and practice some music at his long time house, wondering at any "meaning" of such. I did tell myself it was so long looking around the first time and the drive every time, and then a minute of what I came for.

And then---"it" occurred to me. The realization but not yet the ultimate fact.

Spend the time well, son.