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Sunday, July 1, 2012

Headstones Whately Prep, p3

There is a small cemetery slightly off the trail that leads down to the River.  The headstones are old and moss-covered for the most part.  The two most recent ones, my father’s and my daughter’s are carved into smooth, grey granite.  The markers are as simple as a Protestant would allow.  I slow my pace to a walk when I pass the small graveyard that is set back inside of a white picket fence.  This land belongs to the school.  Both my father and my daughter belonged to the school, thus they belong to this land.  A syllogism if ever I saw one. 
My father died unexpectedly.  I have missed him every day since his death.  I am grateful that he did not suffer from a long, debilitating disease that robbed him of his memory or vitality.  The cause was identified; It was as simple as his heart stopped beating. It has been three years since he died.  Accepting his death has been like swallowing a chicken bone; it goes down hard. 
There are times I can convince myself that Kelly is not gone.  The idea is at once. so preposterous, so out of the realm of possibility, that I literally find myself on autopilot planning doctors appointments, hair appointments and trips for Kelly.  I have had to keep secret that she comes to me.  In the house, on the soccer fields, during morning assemblies, I see Kelly.  The only place that I am not haunted by her is when I am along, or in, the Connecticut River.

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