Here lies Josiah Weaver. Father. Husband.
Son.
This is all. I am resting now, behind this quiet, iron wrought
fence. My life was full of everything I ever wanted. Work, family, home, love,
faith. I earned my resting place, here beside my mother and father and his
mother and father and every mother and father back for ten generations.
I was the good son. I stayed on the land and cared for
the crop and the stock. I put food on the table for my wife and children. My life
may have looked boring to some. I know it looked boring to my brother. He left
the first chance he had. He fought in wars and worked in factories and made his
way through college and made way more money than I ever could. He had two
wives, although not at the same time, and three children and died in a puddle
of his own vomit with a bottle in his hand. He is buried here too, way in the
back corner, but he still has the honor of his name. It is engraved there, on
the front of the mausoleum for everyone to see. I objected when they brought
his body home. He didn’t deserve a place of honor here among those who put
their faith in family, but father reminded me he was his son too, he would join
us in death even if he never joined us in life. In the end I came to terms with
my brother being with us, after all, no matter what happened, he is still
family.
There is still room here. My wife has taken her place at
my side and my son will come after me. My daughter will be buried under another
name and her children with her. She understands, just as I do, family is
everything. It is what we have here on this earth and it is what we will have
in the next life.
My callused hands, work-worn and strong, are folded over
my heart. A smile of sweet repose rests upon my face. There is strength and
peace radiating from me, even as I slowly fade to dust. I am left to wonder,
why is there no doorknob on the inside?
No comments:
Post a Comment