I own four graves at the Beth David Cemetery in Elmont, Long Island. My father and his two brothers were in their thirties when they purchased six plots: one for each brother, one for each wife. Eventually everyone moved to Florida and my uncles decided to stay there (forever) and I got the deeds to graves three, four, five and six. One and two are claimed; my mother is already buried in the first, the second will be for my father. Three more are for me, my sister, and our cousin Gloria. I’ve offered the last one to my boyfriend Mack, but he always shakes his head.
“Maybe, Miri, if I can have the one next to your dad,” he says. “But I am not getting parked next to you three women. Yak, yak, yak.”
When my father comes in from Florida, we visit my mother and my brother at the cemetery. Yes, my brother is there too, his grave is a few rows back. He was just twenty-nine when he died, so my parents had to buy another plot, and there was nothing closer. They never thought to buy graves for children they might outlive. Who would plan for that? I think about planning, though. With my brother gone, it will be my job to arrange my father’s final details: the funeral, the burial, maybe a military service with a folded flag and a Marine Corps plaque, and a fitting gravestone inscription.
I plan to get it exactly right, and make my dad proud. Not that...
Subscribe now to keep reading
Please enter your email to log in or create a new account.