She seemed happy and pleased with herself. There was an expanse of land allotted for ten plots. “Doesn't look like anyone's buried there.” I glanced at where she was gesturing. “Good.” She pointed to an empty swatch of grass three plots over. Would you mind if my Aunt was buried near your father?” But you're like the dads of the two or three kids I know with fathers who behave like fathers should.” She bent down and touched my father's headstone. I have friends who mostly have idiots for fathers. One's a world-class loser, the other's a world class bastard. “How do you know?” I said, a little surprised and touched at her observation. “If you have a kid are you gonna name him Dillard Coltrane the fourth?” She was standing next to me, looking down at my father's grave. “Why is your name on that gravestone?” said Quilla much too loudly for a cemetery.
He was young, 36, and even though he would now be 56 I couldn't picture him at that age. Despite the fact that he'd been gone nearly twenty years, it still seemed like I'd only seen him yesterday.
I didn't so much pray as reflect on the loss: he of his life, me of my father, my mother of her husband, us of our family.
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