He Would've Been 86

Dad, that is. Would have been 86 today. I find myself thinking of him between now and the anniversary of his death. He creeps into my consciousness in small sparks of recognition. A phrase here. A song there. A gesture from one of my siblings will remind me of him. The sparkle in my nephews eye makes me remember his. The missing him is not as intense as it used to be--that's to be expected. It was after all 22 years ago he died. But I'm introspective now. And not as easy to distract by the mundane. Will I always do this, I sometimes wonder? Stop what I'm doing and think of him. It's so intense sometimes, the memories. I made a vow to visit the grave this weekend. Because it's Memorial Day, there will be lots of people planting flags. Every year I remember that I promised to make sure there is a flag at his grave. I am supposed to make sure the cemetery knows he was a veteran, bu every year I forget. It's okay. Nobody is keeping score I know. I don't visit the place like I used to. But it's quiet there. And I feel like he knows I'm there when I go. Is that blasphemous? I mean I'm sure he's in heaven wherever that is, but it feels like he just might be there in the quiet and stillness, the small breeze that plays over the grass, the muted traffic whizzing by. So before the picnic and the family I'll go over and say hello just for a little while. Just to let him know I remember.