At the cemetery
I thought we could find
his final resting place by memory
(even though
the individual rows of graves
have names to help
in just such a circumstance).
We asked for no directions
and simply trekked out
expecting to ascertain
his whereabouts.

Too speedily
we got lost
around the many
many dead, resting
in proximity to my pop.

The sun beat upon us
as we walked among the stones
seeking where he had gone
to rest.
It was uncomfortable
sweating through the necropolis
but at least discomfort
proved that we still lived.

Some circling brought us back
to an area we had already explored
but where others had already congregated
to wish my father well.
They had beaten us to his final destination.
Perhaps they knew where they were going.
Perhaps they had cared more.
Perhaps, unlike my father
and me,
they thought to stop
for just a moment
and ask for directions.