The last of the firsts

Yesterday was father’s day. Usually a celebration, yesterday was somewhat subdued by the conspicuous absence of Pop. So far we have done the first Christmas without him, the first new year’s day without him, my first birthday without his calling me, his birthday without my calling him, Easter, winter break, and now father’s day.

Dad and I went to the cemetery where his ashes are to say hello. I thought it would be harder, but I was pleasantly surprised to see that while it was difficult it wasn’t as insurmountable as I had expected. We arrived at Rookwood, the largest cemetery in Sydney, at about 130pm. It seems the rest of the city had the same idea because the traffic on the small lanes inside the 700 acre cemetery was gridlocked. Small vendors set up flower stalls and took the mourner’s money hand over fist. It was a little sad to see such crass commercialisation. We brought our own flowers—a small bunch of violets from our garden.

We parked the car near his plaque at the crematorium. He and grandma were both cremated; their remains now resting side by side with twin plaques. Together forever. As we rounded the corner, scenes from the funeral came flooding back to me. We sat down on the garden bed opposite their plaques—Dad took out his hankie and cleaned them as I contemplated. “Happy father’s day, Dad” he said, as he put the flowers in the small vase in the wall. We sat in silence for a little bit, I sighed deeply, and then we left.

It was cathartic, very cathartic. The last nine months have felt so intangible, but yesterday I had something to touch as I said happy father’s day, something real to look at and interact with—not a photograph of the real thing; something tangible, real, there.