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