This morning I went to the Veterans cemetery where my father is buried. I haven't been there since I was 16 I sat there today I could still hear the 21-gun salute and feel the cold December chill. The sound of the rifles that day was jarring. Silently, my father's comrades came to pay their respects. I wanted the day to end, yet, I wanted to stay there all day. I knew that I was going home to a parent who was ill-equipped to provide a life for me and my sister. My father came home from a war that rendered him unfit for family life.
I was very angry with my father that day. My father tried to make amends at the end of his life. I was too angry, too young, and just too many things teenagers are. It took a very long time for me to see my father for who he was. A complicated man who was broken from serving the country he loved. To the day he died, he didn't regret serving his country. He hated how he was treated when he returned. I think if he had lived and continued the treatment for PTSD, our children would have had a character of a grandfather.
I sat there thinking of the qualities that my father encouraged my love of books, and cooking, duty, a sense of right and wrong, and my sense of order.
I left fresh flowers there aren't many things that are allowed at military cemeteries. My father's gravesite was a mess. I cleaned it up. I didn't bring my husband or our kids. I simply wanted the space to be for my thoughts.
I drove to see my godmother. We had lunch together that I brought over. She offered me a few keepsakes of my fathers and pictures. I accepted these with an open, grateful heart. My godmother is my dad's sister and they were very close. Irish twins.
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