My Father’s Grief

By Valerie Brown

Sixty-two. That was the age my father changed. He had never been the morbid type, but the death of his parents in previous years, the death of his beloved dog, and the sudden realization that his brother’s heart condition was quickly deteriorating, was too much. He felt alone. Helpless.

With his own life edging down the proverbial hill’s backside, he looked back, ached for the happiness of previous years.

But he never found it.

The heart condition was congenital.

Now, instead of meeting him for lunch, I sit on this bench, next to his stone. I hope he has found peace.