Unveiling

We are home from the unveiling of my parents' headstone. The unveiling is the close of mourning, and comes roughly a year after the death. It's neither a long nor a sad ceremony. A kaddish, a psalm, a prayer, and a few words from the loved ones. We lay stones on the headstone, a sign of love and respect. It's a closing, the time to move on.

When my father was deteriorating, I used to take short breathers during visits, standing on the seawall looking at the water. There were often boaters going by, or people using those boards you stand on and paddle. I was watching people who were at a better place in life, before going back inside and trying to bring light some light with me.

The afternoon following the unveiling, my brother and I kayaked the canals in his neighborhood. We paddled past houses, apartments, Publix, even went under a few roads. I hadn't made the connection then, but we were the people paddling the canals, not the ones staring at inevitable death.