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Pull the Bandaid Off

I'd been avoiding this moment for over a year. Twice, I have made it as far as the cemetery gate before chickening out. I don't want to face the emotional meltdown that I feel is inevitable. Seeing my dad's grave will feel so... final.

Just do it, I tell myself. It's just like ripping off a bandaid. You need to do this to heal.

I wander through a maze of little country roads to the cemetery and stop at the entrance. Go. I haven't been since the funeral, so I wander around looking for his headstone. After about five frustrating minutes, I find it.

A gentle breeze rustles the leaves above my head. Birds chirp, greeting the sunset. I stand frozen, waiting for something to happen. I sit on top of the headstone.

"Hi, uhh..." I feel a little ridiculous talking to a chunk of stone. Instead, I imagine a conversation going something like this...

"Hey, Dad. It's me. I'm going to make you proud."

"You already have, Pumpkin. Thanks for taking such good care of your mom."

"Yeah, sure. No problem." We both laugh.

I'm brought back to reality. The graveyard is so quiet. No one is talking except me. I head for my car, surprised at how collected I am. I get in and shut the door.

That's when it happens. The sudden, uncontrollable sobbing hits me.

"What... the... hell..." I gasp angrily between heaving sobs. I hold the steering wheel and let it pass. There, I did it. I drive home in silence, trying to process my delayed emotions. This is good. This is what normal people do to heal... closure. 

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