“Which one of you is the author?”
My sister and mother discretely deferred in my direction and I smiled at the council worker.
“Oh! I bought your book. I had to order it through the bookshop. It is so lovely, such a wonderful message it sends.”
“Thank you.”
Ordinarily, this kind of exchange would have me dribbling with pleasure. On this occasion, however, I had to shake my head over the incongruity. Should I laugh? Grimace? Still be just as pleased?
You see, we were standing in the middle of my local cemetery, at the plot we’d just chosen for my father, who – as chance would have it – will be laid to rest just a few metres away from his uncle and down the hill from his mother and father.
The ground is squishy and we need to tread carefully through the grass. I come from a state parched and scorched to an area affected by flooding. The river is up, and I watch it swirl nastily around exposed tree roots. There are still a few streets closed.
In the end I think I’ve decided to just…let it all be. Take it all as it comes. People have told me – and I know it to be true – that dad was extremely proud of the accomplishments my sister and I have made in life, my book only being the most recent. So I daresay he was listening in to the little exchange and rather than feel confused about the appropriateness of the setting, I should perhaps think there might be no better place for it.
Because he will be still smiling.
