On Father’s day some family and friends got together and paid a visit to my Dad’s grave site. The grave stone isn’t ready yet so I put his favorite footwear and hat on the plot, while Marty put his favorite grilling-on-Father’s-Day drink of choice down. Those who could, shared a beer and remembered my Dad’s delicious bar-b-qued steaks. We went down to Marty’s latter in the day and had a nice cook-out of smoked chicken and sausage, bullhead and salad; still, it wasn’t the same, Father’s day without a Father is kind of pointless.
My sister has planted a garden as my father used too, still, it’s not the same. The backyard looks different because he’s not in it. He’s not playing with the pressurized watering system he designed and built, fed by the well he dug. He’s not talking about his garlic and his horseradish; or the newest leak in his watering system; or mowing the lawn; or talking politics with the neighbor.
It’s raining and I couldn’t ride my bike to the cemetery. This day sucks.
