keep’em coming.

I bought a tombstone for my father a while back.
Had his name and date of birth engraved on it.
No date of death, though, he’s still quite young.
Well, young for his age.
—
I presented the tombstone to him the other day.
No special occasion, I think it was a Wednesday.
I said it was a gift,
he said he hoped I hadn’t spent too much on it.
—
We spent that slow afternoon in his back garden:
me, him and the slate headstone.
It really isn’t a garden—mostly weeds and
garbage from when he built a shed
at the far end of the property.
To store more garbage in it, I guess.
—
Some awkward moments passed before
he admitted he was more like a
cremation kid of guy.
“And scattering the ashes?” I asked.
He nodded and suggested I made sure
I didn’t miss my train back to town.