I went to visit my father on Tuesday, had he still been alive, he’d have turned sixty-four.
To say it was an awkward affair would be putting it lightly. I just stared, unfocused, at the grave, as if I were able to penetrate the earth and into his decayed coffin and once live corpse. I didn’t speak to him, didn’t even utter a ‘Happy Birthday Pops,’ it was much too personal. So I placed the orchids I’d bought in one of his flower holders, rearranging them around the other flowers from various family members and relatives, and left. My mother asked me later if I was happy that I’d visited, proceeding onto other trivial matters, without ever realizing I hadn’t answered her question. I suppose it’s better that way, even if she waited, I wouldn’t have known what to say.
