When Hell Freezes Over

The cemetery is my least favorite place. Far too many dead people. My mom is one of them. And my dad has taken up residence here for near 40 years now.

I don't visit my dad. And I won't be stopping by to say hello to my mom either. Not after tomorrow anyway.

She died early last year and we gave her a stirring sendoff. Tomorrow we come to talk again.

But I see my mom and dad every day. Not a single sunrise to sunset has passed in almost four decades in which my dad hasn't been in my thoughts. And he is certainly not an inhabitant of the place I will be arriving at on a day that promises to be cold enough for hell to freeze over.

And maybe that is an apt title for this piece. Entering this locale only makes me focus on a negative, on the end of  the being of my parents. And I refuse to accept that. Ever. As in a cold day in hell.

We will gather to pay tribute to what my mom was. But to speak in the past tense does her (yes, I am going to say it) a grave disservice 

My mom once told me to bundle up when I was meeting a friend who lived about 15 minutes away. After all, she said, you are going to the country. I wonder what she would have said about venturing outside tomorrow.

Yeah, I know it's crazy mom. Yes, I will dress warm enough. Yes, we will get back inside as soon as we can. Yes, we will be careful. Yes, I understand you don't need this to know how much you were loved, you are loved.

You see, tomorrow hell is scheduled to freeze over. And my mom is worried about me.