We stand at the edge of my Father’s grave this morning. The hill wound up and around and I am slightly confused by the grass laden trajectory. The place appears brilliantly different from burial day when we stood by the open pit, clothing pierced by snow, frozen with shards of fine ice and whipping wind.
I remembered the absurdity of ballet slippers in the January snow as if I could defy all nature. It was determined. Defiant. ‘I will wear delicate slippers at the edge of a grave and I will not be cold’. And I breathed and time was gone and then we ran into Easter, the holiest day of the year. It is 75 degrees at the edge of the grave and I kick lightly at dirt…with my ballet slippers. ‘In the twinkling of an eye we shall all be changed’.
The tumbled rocks need to be raked over and fresh grass planted and the tombstone placed. We saw and we went on, back down the hill and the dusty road, because Easter dinner is waiting and there are rum cakes and mustard honey ham and spiced potatoes and fellowship.
Because I know this grave at the top of the hill is so very temporary, I kick at the dirt with confidence and I shall no longer wear these ballet slippers this Easter eve…
690 Saint Paul 