Tomorrow would have marked my Dad’s 95th birthday, had he lived that long, but 92 was a good run, and we remember and celebrate him a little bit each day since he left. As tomorrow is 9/11, and this site has always gone dark on that day, I’m writing this little tribute a day early, and posting it just before the midnight hour.
An impromptu and unplanned visit to the cemetery revealed the beauty of a September afternoon. Dad was born on what has typically been a beautiful day – a day when summer’s warmth still lingers, but the comforting coolness of fall has seeped into the night to take the edge off. Like me, Dad was a true-blue Virgo – organized, punctual, perfectionist, exacting, critical, and grounded. It served him well, and I learned a great deal from such order, because I saw how easier things could be when executed properly and done well.
At the top of the hill where he rests, a cool breeze blows beneath the afternoon sun. Clouds roll dramatically across the sky and stalks of goldenrod nod in the distance. A patch of wilderness on the edge of the cemetery is littered with wildflowers still in bloom. While the roses have gone, leaving their hips and thorny warnings, purple and pink blooms have taken their place, gorgeously placed against foliage about to fade from chartreuse to yellow – a reverse return to spring’s original color scheme. Nature loves a full circle.
The wind has grown colder, and I don’t mind it. It feels fitting, like a gentle initiation into the fall to come. When I reach down to place my hand on Dad’s name, the dark stone is still quite warm from the sun. It surprises me – I expected it to be cool to the touch. The unlikely heat reminds me that there is still life here, and that Dad is still with me.
