My Father’s Grave

He used to play make-believe with me when I was little. Daddy would wear a cowboy hat and play Old West Saloon. I was Wyatt Earp; he was Billy the Kid.

We’d have gunfights at high noon. Our living room became the showdown at O.K. Corral. I would take him down with a cap gun. I was the best shot in the West. He would grab his gut, then fall on the floor.

Then, I would jump on his chest. He would kiss me on the forehead. He’d say, “That’s my little cowboy.”

How could a man disappear like dust?

I remember where we emptied his ashes. I am standing on the exact spot. I’ve been waiting years to stand here.

I expect to cry, or feel like someone is jumping on my chest, but I don’t. Instead, I smile. I remove my hat and hold it to my chest.

And I thank my father. I’m not sure what I’m thanking him for, but I am thanking him.

I don’t know. Maybe I’m thanking him for 12 years of love — which is more than some kids get. Maybe, for all the make-believe games in the living room, for forehead kisses.

Maybe I’m thanking him for who I am today. I wouldn’t be who I am if not for his early departure.

And all of a sudden, I miss him. I wish he could swoop down from heaven momentarily and talk to me. I wish I could be a boy, and we could play make-believe.

But he can’t. That’s not the way it works. People are here, then they aren’t. It’s that simple. I’m used to this by now.

I stand on a rock near the edge. “I miss you,” I tell him.

My voice disappears. But at least I’ve said it. And my time here is done. I’m getting tired. I’m ready to crawl down the mountain and get away from this altitude.

I turn to walk away. A cloud begins to form.

I stop to watch.

It spins into shape out of pure

Southern Musings By Gary Lloyd

nothingness. A large, swelling fog.

Nearby, tourists start hollering things like, “Hey! Come look at this cloud!” Folks with cameras aim them at the phenomenon. Everyone gathers.

A pillar of white grows in front of us. In only seconds, mist swallows the whole world. Nobody can see anything but the cloud.

Then.

Snow.

It starts falling hard. Then, gusts of wind. I watch until the show is over and the world turns sunny again.

Experts say sudden weather changes are common this time of year on top of the mountain. And I’m sure they are. Maybe that’s all it was — warm and cold fronts colliding. But then, maybe it was something else. Maybe it was a wink. Or a smile. Or a wave.

Or a kiss on the forehead.

Maybe.

Sean Dietrich is a columnist and novelist known for his commentary on life in the American South. He has authored nine books and is the creator of the “Sean of the South” blog and podcast.