As we pulled into the cemetery, I announced from the backseat, “It’s weed application day.” My mother and two brothers craned their neck toward me like I was the craziest one in the car. Humph! Apparently, no one else saw the big ass white sign with red bold-faced lettering as we entered the sacred ground.
After a bit of driving in circles, I announced, “Dad taught me how to drive in this cemetery. He said it was the best place to learn because I couldn’t kill anyone.”
We all got out of the company car struggling to open our individual umbrellas. Mine was crooked and half broken. Good thing I’m past that point of melting. Tucked under my Dave Hug (otherwise known as Dave’s coat that I stole fair-and-square), I held a poetry book with a copywrite of 1926. The black leather binding is breaking down and the pages are turning yellow, but I can honestly say it is one of my most prized possessions. My grampa gave it to me years ago and that day at the cemetery, my grampa’s tombstone lay two plots away from my dad’s.
The hole in the ground was not six feet. I’m not sure if someone can go to hell for that kind of mistake, but that remains to be seen. We all watched the cemetery worker scoop freshly fallen rain out of the not-six-foot hole with a Folger’s red plastic container. I believe it was of the Black Silk variety. The weed spraying golf cart zoomed by the far-right side of us. There must be a lot of grubs in that dirt.
My brother placed dad’s marble box, the one we almost forgot to take with us, on a green velvet, makeshift table. No one knew what to do at this point. I mean, it’s not like you bury your dad more than once in a lifetime, right? One brother stared at the hole. One stared at the three tombstones lined up. Mother held her umbrella handle tight. No one spoke. It was a comfortable silence. It was then that I decided to keep the meme from social media to myself, guess dad’s ashes aren’t going into an hour glass so he can be a part of family game night. See, I am maturing. Look at that filter.
Finally, I broke the silence by reading the first of my predetermined poems, The Rose Still Grows Beyond the Wall by A.L. Frink. Followed by Try Smiling by some guy named Unknown. I’d like to share it with you today…
When the weather suits you not,
Try Smiling.
When your coffee isn’t hot,
Try Smiling.
When your neighbors don’t do right,
Or your relatives all fight,
Sure ‘tis hard, but then you might,
Try Smiling.
Doesn’t change the things, of course-
Just Smiling.
But it cannot make them worse-
Just Smiling.
And it seems to help your case,
Brightens up a gloomy place,
Then, it sort o’rests your face-
Just Smiling.
We watched dirt being carefully placed on top of the green marble box and then went to eat, where no one in the restaurant knew our family just buried a father and a husband. So, when you’re out and about and something turns your face sour, please remember that yes, everyone is going through something. Be patient. Be kind. And, of course…Try Smiling.