I visited my parents this morning, at the cemetery. Hard to believe but my father’s been gone six years now. My mother passed two years later, no doubt figuring she could more easily nag him from a shared location. I’d say she succeeded too, since the two of them have adjoining plots.
I still miss both my parents terribly; yet I’m consoled knowing they’re resting at peace thanks to me.
Even in the hereafter, dad would’ve bitched and moaned forever if it hadn’t been for my timely intervention.
Sure my siblings protested, at first. Frank wondered if I’d finally gone off the deep end. He asked whether my childhood “Dr. Frankenstein” alter ego, with its accompanying macabre efforts to raise the dead, had manifested once more. While equally questioning my sanity, Lisa threatened to obtain a restraining order to prevent me (as she put it) from “desecrating our parents’ remains.” And Louise? She took a pragmatic approach, advising: “They’re dead. Just leave them alone.”
But I persisted and eventually the others came around. Well not so much “came around” as “abandoned their efforts to stop me.” I had to pay for everything myself of course (no insignificant sum either); however, I thought the money well spent.
It’s almost a year to the day since I arranged for mom and dad to be exhumed so their places could be switched. A drastic measure I freely admit, but an absolutely necessary one. As I saw it, bad enough to have a temporary neighbor you can’t stand, but a permanent one?
Fourteen months ago, when a perverse cosmic joke led to Sid Greenberg’s burial right next to dad, I knew I had to act. What loving son would’ve done otherwise, knowing that the guy his father considered the world’s most insufferable bore had been planted next to him for eternity? I’m sure any dutiful child would’ve performed likewise, particularly if he’d once heard his father bemoan: “I’d rather be dead and buried than spend another minute in this asshole’s company!”