Monday, December 31, 2012

Returning to the scene of the crime

I went home to Brockport, NY for Christmas with my husband and daughter.  Our Navy son was planning to meet us there as well, but scheduling didn't work out and we experienced our first Christmas without him. It was difficult and sad, but I kept reminding myself how fortunate I am and unlike the parents of Newtown, CT who will never see their precious babies again, I will see Zak in the not-too distant future.  I have nothing to complain about, I told myself.  But I'm a selfish brat and cried anyway.

I wanted a white Christmas and Santa delivered.  Eighteen inches fell, resulting in flight cancellations and airport nightmares.  On a positive note, it gave me two more days to walk through the snow and down the lane to visit my Dad's grave in the cemetery.

Returning to the scene of the crime is never wise, but then again, I've never been accused of being very smart.  I trudged through snow drifts up to my thighs and the walk that normally takes me ten or fifteen minutes took about thirty.  The walk up the cemetery hill was a bitch but I was rewarded by fairly shallow snow under the ancient pines.

After stopping to chat with Dad at his grave, I wandered down to the far corner to see if the old graves had ever been fixed.  The photo to the right is proof that I never earned enough money to fix them all.  As I took pictures, I was certain I heard the hum of an old Caddy driving up behind me.  I spun around, half expecting to see Aunt Elizabeth driving over the snow covered grass, aiming right for me.  My imagination is a powerful thing.  In spite of what I thought I'd heard, I was alone in the cemetery.

Or was I?

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