Pleasant Hill

I don’t know if people should drink beer at a cemetery, but I have.  And I do.  And I will.

Last night I sat beside your grave with my head on my hands for a while, just thinking of you.  I imagined the sound of your laughter.  I envisioned your exaggerated expressions.  I thought of your mannerisms and body language.  But, mostly, I thought of the way your face looked when you smiled—so warm and big and bright.  I closed my eyes and remembered how you’d clap your hands together in front of your face when you got excited about something.  I sat there and thought of the sound of your voice when you’d greet me—it was easy to hear your voice in my mind in the quiet of the empty, sprawling field.

This sounds obvious, but it’s sad to think that I’ll never hear that voice again outside of the saved voicemails.  I’ll never see that bright smile again outside of the pictures.  I’ll never hear that laugh and see those waving arms again outside of the videos from vacation.  But I’m comforted that, for now, it’s all permanently in my mind’s eye and imprinted on my heart.  I carry the memory of you within me every day, everywhere I go.  I only visit the cemetery every once in a while, but I visit your memory all the time.

After a while, I got out my guitar and played a few songs.  I barely got through Luke Bryan’s Drink A Beer.  And I cobbled together a some-lyrics version of Zach Brown’s Colder Weather.  And I completely botched Cam’s Burning House.  But it felt good to sit there, next to your resting place--beer open, feeling the sun on my back and just singing.  And when I was done singing, I turned around.

The most beautiful sunset was heading toward the tree-line, and it was so peaceful.  I’m comforted by the hope of seeing you again someday and I enjoyed spending time in my mind, where your earthly body lays.  I’m grateful for all of the memories I have, but I wish you were still here to make more.