He was waiting for me.
I hesitated this time. I don't know why. Still, when I woke up this morning I
knew I had to go.
It's a short trip through the country along a road I've taken many times before.
Happy visits to the state park, walking the dogs, picnics, swimming and simply
getting lost all originated on this road.
I lived there, my father lived there and too many funerals all ended there.
Now, I hardly make the trip.
It was Father's Day, I had to go.
I thought about this last night. How many more times will I do this? This year
was 11.
Eleven years...my God...has it been that long?
As I pulled up along side him, I glanced around me. No one was there this early.
They never are. Then, without hesitation, I slipped the CD into my radio,
searched for the song and hit play. Turning up the volume, I stepped out of the
car and stood there looking at our family name on the headstone.
For 11 years now, I have been singing for my father on Father's Day. Oblivious
to my surroundings, I simply begin to sing his favorite song, "Danny Boy."
When I am finished I reach into the car and shut off the radio.
Most times I return to his spot and offer a simple "thank you."
I remember how I cried the first time I sang it for him there.
Now, it's easier. Not because I love him less, I have just come to accept it all
and grow a little more in peace with the idea that one man loves his father so
much that he sings at his grave.
One more year? I hope I will sing for him until I cannot sing any more.
He always sang for me.
Bob Perks 2believe@comcast.net
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