My parents are both vets, and I always visit their grave around the dates of their respective deaths. Yesterday's visit to commemorate my dad was particularly bittersweet, because I'm getting ready to publish my first collection of short stories, Dragons, Cats, & Formidable Femmes from Ginger Blue Publishing. Dad died before I published my first nonfiction book, and Mom died shortly after I published my first novel. They never got to see my writing take off.
But you know how it is. Even if you don't believe in an afterlife, you make believe to keep the connection with your loved ones alive. I always talk to my parents when I'm there. This time, I decided to leave a couple postcards featuring the pretty, shiny cover by the grave marker. Mother, especially, would have loved it. Her brother Pat nicknamed her "la gazza ladra"--"the thieving magpie"--for a reason. Mom could never resist anything sparkly. There was no danger of the cards turning into trash. It's a graveyard. Flowers and tributes are a given. The groundskeepers remove them on a regular schedule to keep the cemetery pristine.
I photographed one of the cards against Dad's side of the marker and wedged the card between the grass and tombstone to prevent it from annoying other visitors. Then I switched sides, photographed Mom's, and tried to position her card behind the grass next to the marble marker like I had Dad's.
The card whooshed down the side of the headstone and disappeared under the sod like I'd found the mail slot to the Underworld. I wouldn't have thought you could slide a knife blade between the marker and the dirt, much less seven inches of cardstock. I burst out laughing. "You're still a magpie! Well, wherever you are, Mom, just remember, pre-orders mean love."
