Memorial Day

Today I remember.
Gray-blue eyes like my sisters, like my son's.
Laughter that gave and filled and joined.
A man wearing an imaginary coonskin cap and heading west.
A boy trapped inside a large man's body.
The eager pursuit of Indians and animals.
A man cutting the lawn with the scissors.
My dad, as I first knew him, sitting at a campsite in Alaska, white t-shirt, blue jeans, crew cut.

We walked to the cemetery and left an odd assortment. The kids decorated the stone with flowers, weeds, gravel, roses tied with a blue ribbon. We walked out of the cemetery singing, "Blessed be the Name of the Lord." Hands held, Grant's fingers entwined with mine. Rowan and Posy skipped ahead, hands clasped and swinging, joy personified.
The day grew dusky and ripe.
Dave joined me and asked the four-year old question: "Are you sad?"
I replied, "I'm trying to be."
But really, there's no mourning, only remembering.
Remembering and Laughing and Praising.
Thank you God for my dad!