Tea with my Dad

When I travel to Dublin I do my best to get in a visit with my father at his place of residence since 1984, Deansgrange Cemetery. Last year’s trip to Ireland left me no opportunity to get there, so I made certain I would manage it this year.

Last Friday was the day.

I made my way there easily on the bus. My frequent visits to Dublin have left me fairly well versed with pockets of the city and I have that area, on the south side, firmly in hand. As is my usual custom, I stopped at the flower stand at the entry gate to buy a bouquet of what I’ve come to think of as my calling card, white lilies.

Generous cone of blossoms in hand, I stopped in at the tea room for a warm up of a bowl of hearty soup and a delicious slice of cake topped with blueberries, cream cheese frosting and lemon zest. With a pot of tea, of course.

Fortified from my lunch, I asked for a takeaway cup to bring my second cup of tea to enjoy with my father. The day had turned sunny again and I wanted to sit at his grave for a time with my thoughts.

Deansgrange is a large cemetery with a hill that slopes up to a neighboring housing estate. My father’s plot is in the St. Paul section of the graveyard and sometimes I can find it right away, while on other occasions I wander a bit before locating it.

On this day, I found him easily.

Thanks to a cousin’s tending, the grave looked pretty good. The green stones that had previously covered the site had been replaced with white gravel and the weed cloth beneath it had mostly done its job. I laid down my bouquet and considered pulling the few weeds, but decided to just leave them for now.

Signs of life in a cemetery aren’t necessarily a bad thing.

I sat, in a weird way, at my father’s feet, something I had never had the opportunity to do while he was alive. In the quiet, I considered how incredible it was that I was even there – sitting under a blue sky at the final resting place of the man from whom I received half of my DNA.

How could someone I never met have given me so very much?

I reflected upon the miracle, that I believe it is, that 37 years ago I dialed a payphone in London and found a family in Ireland. And, not just a family, but a collection of relations who have done nothing but welcome me into their fold. On this trip alone I would be spending time with dozens of family members, some new to me, but many with whom I have developed warm and close relationships.

I finished the last sips of my tepid tea and wished my father a good rest. Until next time – xxoo