The years have passed and my father is now there among the shadows cast by the trees and the mausoleums. A stone marks the place where he lies, but no picture graces his place of interment. It really isn’t necessary. His image is burned into the souls of those who knew and loved him. Sometimes when I wander the dappled paths where he lies, I feel him walk beside me.

            In reflection, I realize that my entire existence has been very much like a Sunday drive. There have been times when I have done the driving and other times when I have been the passenger on this journey of my life. There have been laughter, friends, family, good meals, and happy times. I have traveled to the tops of mountains and deep into the valleys. Many people have passed me on my journey as they traveled to destinations of their own. There has also been the boring endless procession of days that make up a life.

            Someday my journey will once again end in a cemetery. I just hope that along the way I remember to fill my bag to the brim, to take time to pick the flowers, and to eat the ice cream. I never want to lose sight of the fact that these are the things that make the trip worthwhile. I just hope that when my journey comes to an end someone will care enough to remember me on a sunny Sunday afternoon.