This year my grandfather will have been passed away for six years. Each year, his passing does not get any easier, in fact, each day I miss him more and more, always thinking of what I could have done for him to improve his dying days, when the last time I saw him, and why I could not have been there when he passed. The truth of the matter is, my grandfather was an alcoholic. He was an Italian chef and enjoyed cooking with wine—sometimes he even put some of it in his food. There was nothing I could have done.
This year, my son and I chose to spend Father’s Day at the cemetery visiting his grave. This is the first year my son has ever been to grandpa’s grave, and the first time my grandpa had ever met him. We brought a special memorial with us—a memorial rock that we had engraved to say, “We love you grandpa” that we set next to his headstone. I cried like a baby.
Until I placed the memorial rock on my grandpa’s grave, I had no emotion about purchasing the memorial stone. When I placed the rock on his grave, I bawled like a little baby. I was flooded with memories of my grandpa; I could see him sitting in the rocking chair with me in his lap singing Que Sera Sera until I fell asleep. I was grandpa’s first born grandchild and the memorial rock I was able to place on his grave will never give me my grandpa back but it gave me piece of mind that I could never get elsewhere.