I visited my dad’s grave in the late afternoon sunshine today. He would have eaten right up this juicy perfection of a day. I hope he was doing exactly that somewhere, just beyond where I can see quite clearly.
Back around Valentine’s Day, we had placed a potted, mini fir tree next to his nameplate. I decorated the fir with a wire necklace of red foil hearts that shimmer and flutter in the breeze. Another version of the Valentine’s tree concept I came up with to extend the glow of the holidays.
My husband had reported after a recent cemetery visit that the hearts were gone from the tree. Who knows whether the entranced birds took them, or the hungry wind?
So, I bought an admittedly showy, lavender garland with glittery Easter egg clusters (to match the yellow one in my rock garden :)). And I swathed the little tree today. It looks quite perky.
As I bent down to wrap the tree in sparkly color, I noticed that shimmery, red hearts are sprinkled on the ground around my dad’s grave. Love that.
Then, as I was drifting away, I suddenly felt flattened by the enormous weight of the cemetery. A cement shroud on my back and shoulders. My sundrenched vision was darkened by… what? All of the grey and black and ivory lugubriousness? Or the grief, uncertainty, laments, fear that the colors of mourning represent?
I turned sharply to look back and see whether perky and glitter and sparkle belong in the cemetery. Just like I wondered at Christmastime whether my Santa hat fit in there, in the midst of an awful lot of melancholy. Oh, yeah! Indeed, they do. Happy Spring, Dad.