Once upon a time Memorial Day was more than mattress sales and barbeques. The practice of placing flowers on the graves of the war dead began as Decoration Day, but would be renamed Memorial Day in 1966 by presidential declaration. My mother tells me that it was practice in her family to go to the cemetery every year. The family would don their “Sunday best” before heading with neighbors to place flowers on the grave of her grandfather.

The solemn expression of thanks is in stark contrast to the occasion when my mother and I visited my dad’s grave. As I noted in a previous post (yes, you can read that one too), as my dad died in February, the frigid temperatures in Cincinnati – more specifically the frozen ground – prevented a gravesite burial, so I never saw his actual “final resting place.”

Much to my mother’s chagrin, his final resting place was outside of Cincinnati. She did notice the irony that because she had an adjoining plot that she would spend Eternity in Cincinnati, a town which she spent years trying to leave.

A few years ago I got it into my tiny brain that a visit to the Gates of Heaven cemetery was needed. I don’t know why and I don’t know why my mom agreed to the trip, but she did. And off we went. The trip was one that travelled down memory lane. We drove by our old house on Keys Crescent, drove by my old school – which is where I would have attended high school if we had not moved, and enjoyed laughs and stories with former neighbors and current friends.

On a brisk and rainy morning mom and I set off for Gates of Heaven. We arrived and proceeded to obtain the plot number and headed to his grave. Mom parked the car and we sat until the unrelenting rain relented. We walked up and down. And up and down. And up and down. Like the infamous Chuckles The Clown episode of Mary Tyler Moore, an occasion of reverence devolved rather quickly. We could not find the grave. It certainly could not be that hard. It was not like we were trying to find the cure for cancer. And it was not as if his grave was a moving target.

Soon we could not stop laughing at how stupid we must have seemed to any onlookers. In our defense, the grave marker was fairly nondescript, just a plaque provided by the US Marine Corps, of which my dad had served very, very briefly. On it was written Thomas Francis Hickey – his confirmation name, Michael, was not included which seemed off because he was known to everyone as Mike.

I thought seeing his grave would mean something. I thought it would mark some closure or bring me closer to him. It did not.

It did not remind me of the man on whose lap I sat. It did not emit the scent of after shave that I cannot remember. It did not tell me the stories I have never heard about his time in college. The grave was flat and one-dimensional, which only made me yearn more for the stories and details about my father that would make him less one-dimensional.

My mom can tell me about the rituals and traditions of her childhood, but she is less able to identify those of my childhood. What did we as a family do each Easter Sunday? Were there Memorial Day picnics we attended as a family?

The absence of color and contour of her memories is understandable. So too for my brother. Sometimes remembering can be more painful than the loss itself. Besides, there were not many years we spent as a family.

When a family loses a parent, the focus often is on dealing with the death and not on preserving the life. On this Memorial Day, I cannot help but think of the son or daughter who will for the first time mark this day with a trip to their father’s grave. Or the mother who pays her respect with a newborn who was born after his father’s ultimate sacrifice. They will never know him, not even the bonding first touch or kiss on the forehead. For them, I offer a prayer and the hope the coming years are filled with friends and family sharing stories, memories and mementos that give fullness to their heart and depth to their understanding of the life lived by their mother or father.

May God bless the path of those who serve and sacrifice for our freedom.