My father has been dead for 22 year now.

I recently visited the grave he shares with his Dad, who passed away much later than him. (A father burying his own son - I think is still something that shouldn’t happen to any parent.)

Perhaps this is too gloomy for a summer day post, but there’s a story. After I placed a pot of flowers on their gravestone, I sat under the marble gazebo (I don’t know what else to call it) to rest and get away from the hot sun. The air was warm but the blowing wind gave some relief. It was an odd day to visit the place actually, a hot mid afternoon and the park was silent and still. It was, after all, a cemetery.

I was all alone in a vast plain of grass and dead people - and I actually loved it.

Well it would have been that if it weren’t for a very old man who was there before me, who sat under the shade and then decided to head to a grave some 10 meters away, and lie down on the grass.

I wanted to stay longer, just take in all the rare silence, read a book and rest but as I sat there and watched him lie down on the grass, I felt like I was invading his personal space. I thought I shouldn’t be watching him as it was possible he was lying next to the grave of his beloved wife. It was a private moment, he could have been whispering stories to her, telling her how he misses her.

Why would an old man, still strong enough to travel by himself, stay in a cemetery on an odd, hot day and lie down on the grass next to a grave?

No, I did not take a picture of the old man, as I left just after staying for a few minutes because I really felt like I was invading his personal space.

I should’ve taken a picture, just to be certain he really was there.