In Memoriam

The place has changed since my last visit. I must now travel through the main entrance because the surface streets that used to let out onto the main thoroughfare have been terminated. I wind my way through the maze, not entirely sure of the best route, but comfortable that I'm at least heading in the correct direction.

As I pull up to the lake, I see a few people and I slow my car down. To my right I observe a father in his mid-30s supervising his young daughter – I estimate her age at two years, and she has curls the color of powdered sugar – who is at the water's edge feeding bread to the geese and ducks. I stop to watch them for a moment, moved, and when the father turns to me and smiles, I roll down the car window and tell him I have something to share with him. He smiles and nods, encouraging me, and I clear my throat and say, "When I was a little girl, not much older than your daughter, my father would bring me to this lake to feed the geese. It was a very special time for us." His eyes widen in surprise, and he says, "Really? I guess I didn't know the lake had been here long." I laugh, overlooking his innocent comment, and say, "Yes, long before we put my father to rest here. I just wanted to say that I'm glad you are bringing your daughter here to do this. It touched me to see her there." He grins and tells me they love to come there, and when I wish them a good day, he waves and says, "Thank you for the story."

Wandering through the labyrinth, I marvel at how many new residents have settled in since my last visit. I notice many new trees dotting the landscape. I hope I can remember how to find him amidst the shifting landmarks.

I do find my way, and as I stop my car, I am greeted by a sea of small American flags, waving to and fro in the warm, soft breeze. I follow the signature line of birch trees to where they intersect with another line of trees, and this is where he rests. The trees are all so big now, which tells me it's been far too long since my last visit.

I sit on the ground, at his feet. This happens every time; I have so much to tell him, but when I'm with him, I forget, remembering only how to cry like a daughter. It amazes me that he can still touch my heart and soothe me, telling me my tears are wasted and that all is as it should be. I turn my face to the sun and let it dry my tears; a few escape the warmth and are carried away on the soft breeze, coming to rest on a blade or two of grass.

I close my eyes and I hear the whisper of the flags all around me, the chirping of a pinwheel on a nearby marker, the tender song of small windchimes that have been placed in the lower branches of the trees, the soft hiss of the fountain in the lake, and the birds singing in the surrounding woods. I do not hear the curse made by the ant as it bites me on my left index finger. I flick him away.

Sitting here instills a calm inside me. There is an ancient magnolia leaf near me at the foot of the grave, brown and fragile. I look around but there are no magnolia trees in sight. Where did it travel from? Most likely carried by the errant breeze, like a tear.

After a short, silent spell in the sunshine, I'm ready to exit the silk and plastic garden with all of its accouterments. I send kind thoughts to all of his neighbors, particularly those bearing the little flags. And I find myself making parting apologies to my father, something new for me:

I'm sorry I was not a better judge of character.
I'm sorry I let love blind me to the truth.
I'm sorry I let someone steal from our family.

Hush, he says. All is as it should be.

The tears are gone. Another ant bites me, this time on my left foot. This one I hear, however; he says, "Hurry up. You have a life to live."