I'll Never Be Good Enough, Father?
[}—–{ Calls of a Cello's Mellow Strings }–—{]
Words can hurt, or they can inspire. In my case, I should like to believe both to be true.
As I stand over Father's grave, I can't help but notice all of the tiny little details that dotted its surface. A chip in the granite, no doubt originating from a careless worker dropping it or handling it roughly. A few weeds growing in one of the corners, products of a lazy gravedigger, who would be content with tossing in the same, grass-infested dirt that he had just dug out. A place where the hooves of the pastor had scuffed at the polished plaque atop the freshly turned earth as he trotted symbolically over the grave, showing a physical sort of "passing" through one world into the next. It's amazing what a pony notices when they're at a funeral.
