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