When you discovered my dead father last weekend, Peg, it went beyond the boundaries of friendship. I was ready to leave his body behind...but no, not you. You were determined, even after the tranquilizers set in.

"I was busy raising five children. That's why! Have you tried raising five children on a secretary's salary? Have you? Did you want a fancy stone for your father's grave or dinner? Huh? Which one? You pick! Ungrateful, little...

 - My Mother, from the Other Side

2. I don't do cemeteries. I'm not into the "business" of dying. You'll be able to reference this when I croak. I don't want a stupid casket. Or a funeral. Or a fancy urn for my ashes. Just stick some dynamite in my orifices, light them and throw me off a cliff over the ocean, for the fish to feast on.

3. My father didn't die. I wasn't allowed to see him in the hospital and didn't go to the funeral because I was only six. I figured he skipped town to be with a better family (pictured above) with better little girls. While I now know this is silly, my little girl brain works differently. When people leave me, on any level, I feel too hurt for too long.

When we drove into the cemetery, my hands started shaking a little and you noticed. You offered me a cherry flavored, fast-dissolve Klonopin. Ah, what a friend! Tranquilizer candy! I didn't consciously find this situation upsetting, but I can disassociate with the best of them. So while I felt alright, your cherry flavored, fast-dissolve Klonopin made me feel...alrighter.

Cemeteries are hard to navigate - a virtual maze of death. How do grief-stricken people ever track down their loved ones?  It's "Section this, Lot that, Lane whatever, Row something." Perhaps they  are laid out in such a way where you walk your grief off.

My  father, according to the directions we were given, was between "Griffin"  and "Fario". If we found those two, he would be the "blank spot in the  middle." I cringed when the office told me that. Ah, the bloody symbolism of it all.

Our search began.

Plastic flowers blew everywhere this windy, cold Spring day. I gathered them into mini-bouquets and began putting them on several unmarked graves, having no luck finding Griffin or Fario.

Meanwhile, Peg, you kept looking as if your life depended on it. Why were you so concerned? Ah yes...long-standing friends know better. They've watched me operate from that little girl's mind for far too long. They want change for me, sometimes more than I want it.

But even you tired of the search, Peg. We just couldn't find him! (You'd think we would have found a goddamn Griffin, at least, just by default.) We got back in your car. You were more disappointed than me.

"Peg, I don't care. Really. This doesn't mean anything to me."

We started driving and after a moment, you slammed on the brakes. "Oh shit! Section H is on this side too!"

"Peg, really."

"No. We came this far."

We got out of the car and looked again. 

At this point I had no flowers left. A plastic red poppy blew by me and I grabbed it, just in case. As I looked halfheartedly for Griffin, I Klonopin-mulled over the effects of being fatherless:

To a little girl, your father is your prince. Your saviour. Without him, you feel like a perpetual Cinderella, too wrong and ugly to go to any ball. Or the last one at a party, hoping that special man will arrive and take you home. But he doesn't, so you stand there in the cold, waiting. Years go by, waiting. A fucking lifetime could go by, waiting. I don't want a lifetime to go by, Peg.

"Griffin!" you suddenly yell. "GRIFFIN!!!"

My heart and time stops. I turn toward you slowly and you're standing there, with such a look on your face; scared, pleased, relieved, concerned. This image of you will remain with me until the end of my days, this I'm sure. I stand there, with one plastic red poppy in my hand, feeling 6 again. Tears fall. Hands shake. I walk toward you. Toward my father.

When I reach you, we hug 6 feet directly above my dad. It's a true friend hug. Big, mighty and safe.

 "Your father is right here, Beth. Below me. He's not with some better family. He's right here."

"Thank you. You've...you've gone beyond friendship, Peg."

You insist I sit there for 10 minutes and grieve, damnit. And I do. I place the plastic red poppy where a marker should be. I rather like it. The surrounding tombstones all look the same. My father has a single red poppy instead, because he's special. He's not a blank spot anymore.