Reflections

I had never seen my father cry until that day. It was a strange sight to witness. He had always been big and strong, not only physically but emotionally. Maybe it was just that I had always seen him in that light. Had it all been an allusion. I think he and I both changed that day. He became a little weaker and I was forced to become a little stronger.

We stood together in the cold rain looking at the coffin in front of us. I remember standing there holding his hand and looking up at his face. I watched as the rain drops mixed with his tears and rolled off his face landing on our hands. I didn’t understand at the time, why he was so sad. The preacher had told us that mommy was now in heaven and with Jesus. I though that was supposed to be a good thing. Then I remembered what my father had told me. We are only human. We are only human.

When the coffin was lowered into the ground I could feel my fathers grip tighten on my small hand. He held on to it all the way to the car. We climbed into the back set and he slipped his arm around me. I looked up into his face, which I had avoided on the walk back and saw for the first time how tired he looked. I said “don’t worry daddy, it’s ok. Mommy’s with Jesus now.” My father looked down at me and forcing a little smile he replied “Yes son, Mommy’s with Jesus now. And you know what else, if we’re both good, we'll see her again someday.”

That was fifteen years ago. Then came the day I was standing in front of another coffin. This one contained the body of my father. I wasn’t thinking about what the preacher was saying I was thinking about that day fifteen years ago when we stood together next to my mother‘s coffin. Now my father and mother were together again. Maybe my father was at peace now. As I grew older, I began to understand how much he loved my mother. I would come home and find him sitting alone, in a corner of his bedroom with the shades drawn. His face showed that he had been crying. He tried to hide it from me, but I knew. I always knew. Every Sunday we would make the drive out to the cemetery and visit mother.My father would always remember to bring fresh flowers. We would sit for a while, in silence. My father would finally speak to my mother and tell her all about his week. Before we would leave he would always ask me if I had anything to say to mother. At first I felt funny talking to a headstone. One day. I summed up all my courage and told him so. His reaction was not what I expected. He told me it was OK. He would feel strange talking to a headstone to,thing is he didn’t see a headstone, he saw my mother. She was sitting right there on the grass in front of us. She would sit there and lesson to my father talk about his week and she only spoke when she had something loving to say. I looked up at him and ask him if he really saw her. He bent down and whispered something in my ear that stayed with me the rest of my life.

I never forgot that day. A few years ago I retired from my job. I think of mother and father more often these days. Sometimes, I’ll go by the cemetery and visit them. I tell them all about what I have been doing between visits and they set together on the ground in front of me, holding hands and lesson quietly. They look so happy setting there together. Now, if you ask me if I really see them setting there, I will wisper to you the samething my father wispered to me years ago when I ask him the same question.

(wisper)I don’t see them with my eyes, I see their reflections in my heart.