Happy 100th, Dad!

Dewars! That's what we brought to the grave. Each of us had an airplane bottle of the scotch-whisky. My sister, Maureen, said it was his idea and brought them in a ripped brown paper bag. She regularly communes with our deceased Mom, Dad, and sister, Kathi, buried together; we take it for granted. I, of course, went for the obvious joke and poured mine over the tokens we had just picked up off the ground and placed on the granite ledge under his name shouting, "Dewars's on the Rocks for you, Dad!" Thank goodness they laughed. None of us took a sip before pouring out our bottles, out of deference to his alcoholism and indifference to scotch. We hoped Mom and Kathi wouldn't mind a bit of scotch too. We fumbled through a selfie to commemorate the event to share with the oldest three. Left behind that day was the family sarcasm, quips, guardedness, hidden knives. Cheers, Dad, the family seeds you planted years ago are way past rooting and thriving towards the sun, in a row, together.