Father

I’m currently employed by a company that restores masonry work on all types of buildings around the Chicagoland area. If a piece of a wall is missing at a school or hospital, or the caulk in between windows is peeling off, or you need your office building power washed to make it look new again, they can do the job. Their biggest clients are cemeteries and churches. They upkeep monuments, mausoleums, historic facades of old churches and bell towers.

 

Even though I was initially hired to do marketing and business development, I've become more of an errand boy, a position I don't get much pleasure from. On some of these errands, I’m tasked to pick up some material from one end of the city, and drop it off at a job on the other end. I’ve spent more time in cemeteries this past month than I have my entire life, but it comes with the territory. On this specific day I was told to go to Maryhill Cemetery to pick up a few screws that needed to be replaced. I reluctantly accepted the task and drove over to complete the pickup. I followed one of the construction workers to a warehouse that prepared the concrete space that is eventually lowered into the ground and filled with coffins, one for each tombstone. There he fiddled through a bucket to produce the six screws that I needed to pick up. I cupped my hand, and took the screws back to my car and safely put them into a ziplock bag.

 

I sat in my car and tried to summon up the courage to visit my father’s grave located no more than a hundred feet away from where I was sitting. I haven’t visited his tombstone in over 7 months, since around the time of his birthday back in March. I don’t like coming here, but since I was here I was going to pay him a visit.

 

I drove my car closer to the lot he was buried in walked over to his tombstone.

Alexander Kouvalis

1934 – 2011

Father

Eternal Rest Grant Unto Him

 

The grave lay beneath my boots. The stone horizontal with the ground, maybe one foot by two feet. Here lies a man, who lived a life, who accomplished much, and here is his final resting place. A stone no bigger than a lunch tray, next to hundreds of other lunch trays. If it wasn’t for his accomplishments and his legacy, an interesting man like my father would’ve vanished forever, forgotten completely. A simple stone doesn’t do him justice.

I try to mutter a few words but I can’t. I know I won’t hear anything back. Don’t get me wrong, he wasn’t in the running for Best Dad of the Year, he definitely had his issues. What I miss most at this moment, looking down at his grave, is knowing that whatever strength I could muster to say something, he won’t be there to say anything back. It’s the conversations that I will miss the most, that is the one thing I will never get back. As I think about this, my eyes swell and tears fall onto the stone. I’m the only person here, in my black leather jacket, blue jeans and work boots.  I’m filled with anger and sadness, standing here alone, amongst a vast graveyard looking down at the ground.

 

I hate cemeteries. Never is death so peaceful and accepted as it is in a cemetery.

 

I take in a big breath of autumn air, wipe away my tears and manage to say, “I’m trying my best.”

Another breath and I say, “See you next time.”

 

Until next time old man. I’ll know where to find you.