Mom sprung a surprise on me in August. I was going to visit with the intention to sign some legal papers and then she added that we were going to finally bury my dad.
As it was noted here years ago, he passed in April 2012 and was cremated, but she couldn’t decide on a burial spot. She was dealing with some stuff with his memory and the task lagged. She says she was talking to his urn when my sister showed up to take her to her eye appointment and said "Since I'm early, should we finally go find him a plot?"
Paperwork had to be done before he could be buried, and then finally the time happened. She was just going to drop him off but realized the urn was too heavy. And I don't think just dropping him in the office and calling it a day was what was supposed to happen.
We made it into a ceremony of sorts, I carried him out to the car, and Will carried him to his plot. It was a beautiful morning, the kind of morning where he would have played a quick nine, gotten a haircut, and had an early lunch.
Will was three when he died, too young to realize what was going on. Maybe the length of time was meant to be so that he was old enough and mature enough to do what was needed. The above picture was too intimate for me to share on a wider platform, but it means a lot to me; so much so, it's taken me a couple of months to write about it.
His birthday is August 18, we missed his 81st by two days. It was far overdue.
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