The marker

    So it's been 8 weeks, and Dad's marker should be there by now. I'm waiting for a call back from the cemetery office people. (I was going to say, "I'm waiting for a call back from the cemetery," but that sounded more than a little creepy.) Obviously, I can just go over and look, and on a nicer day (tomorrow, for instance) I may. But today is too grey (heck, let's just make the whole thing rhyme) for feeling much like visiting a cemetery.
    I don't know why it seems like such a big deal, but it does. I know it's a big deal for Margaret, since she's had a potted lily for him since his birthday almost a month ago. I'll be happy to take her there to deliver it, and I'll be happy to bring my own flowers to put on the grave, too. I guess the big deal is that the marker creates a place, instead of just a stretch of empty ground. A marker, in other words, marks. And I know it will be great because we designed just what we wanted and I know there won't be any misspellings because they're very professional. I guess though that it is an extra measure of finality that's both sad and glorious. I'll try to focus on the latter.

Edit: She called back and while the marker has come in, they have some surveying and engineering to do to get it installed, so it might be another two weeks. She'll call me when it's in place.