Buried on a Hill

Ten years ago today, we buried my dad on a hill that overlooks the rolling countryside. It was a sunny, cold and muddy day. His suffering over, he was laid to rest after being ravaged by dementia. It was so hard to remember him whole and well.

I think about him often. When I watch my husband fix something, I remember all the times I watched my dad fix things. When I talk to my brother on the phone, I hear my dad. When my oldest son talks or moves his hands a certain way, or uses his dry wit on us, I see my dad. When I look at my middle son's artwork or his experiments, I see my dad. When my youngest son gives me a devilish grin and sweet talks me into something, I see my dad. The mantle clock that he faithfully wound every Saturday night sits on my mantle, and the chimes remind me of him. Whenever I crack a corny joke, I feel I am paying him a tribute.

The memories of his sickness have faded, and I can see him as he was: tall, handsome, strong, intelligent and talented. And funny.

I miss you, Daddy.

Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea.

But such a tide as moving seems asleep
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;

For though from out our bourne of
Time and Place
The flood may bear me far
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar.

-Tennyson