Literally, of course, my father went to the cemetery. Some would say those ashes are not him, but of course they are, or else it wouldn't matter where they ended up. What's left of him is in that box that I carried to the grave against my side, where I carried my kids when I picked them up, where my father carried me; my father is in that box I left in a hole in the ground. When I walked to the car, I wept because I was abandoning him, and because this is what our life is, being left behind, then leaving.
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