Made a trip to visit Dad last Sunday in the cemetery in Rehoboth, Massachusetts. We got there as the gloomy night was coming to the misty wet, thickly green corner of rural Massachusetts and I stood before the rough piece of granite that he had selected as a monument for my mother and him and just said, "Hello."
No answer back this blustery rain soaked evening. Just a piece of stone with the word "Spriggs" carved at an angle - a rare silence because he speaks to me so often these days. In fact, he's in my head more and more as I get older - sometimes taking over my better judgement. He and I never agreed on politics, but I have to say that I now understand his point of view more than I ever did.
Of course, he still has a lot to say about being a dad that is lost on me, not having children of my own. At least no biological children. I do have people that I've pushed along the road much as a father would and I am proud of what they have accomplished - much as a father would be. But much of the dad stuff ends here in this cemetery and that has to be acknowledged.
Though a mother's love is always there, a father's approval has to be earned. And earned again and again. And I've found that this has to be done even when the father is no longer there and only living in your head and spirit.
Lichens are growing on the stone. He would have liked that. And he would also have liked the fact that I dropped by to say hello. But he never would have told me.