But before we went to the place I'd picked for lunch, she asked me to stop at the nearby graveyard. It'd been a while since she had gone to this graveyard and she wanted to visit Jack.
My Granddad.
I'm sure I've been to his grave. Possibly more than once as it is literally down the road from my surf club. But I don't recall going and as he died when I was five it's not like I remember him. So this was basically my first time seeing it. But first we had to find it which with my Grandma's memory was like trying to find a needle in a bunch of other needles. The only hint I had was that it was facing the other way to most of the other graves as she kept telling me they were all wrong and had been moved.
I found it because I saw my Dad's name on a grave.
Which, okay logically to be expected. I know my Dad is the third man in his family in a row to have the same first, middle and (of course) last names. I know this. I'm well aware my brother is the first firstborn son to escape having his father's name for generations.
But it's another thing to see your Dad's name on a grave and not be surprised. There wasn't even anything to indicate Granddad was 'the second' of his name. Just Dad's name on the grave, with my Granddad's dates. It was vaguely disconcerting but Grandma (of course) didn't seem to notice. She's used to it.
I'm not, mostly because I do not know the man who is buried there. I mean, I have a vague memory of him but only that and well, my Dad doesn't talk about his Dad much. Not like Mum with her Dad. So I never got the chance to know about him from stories- only what my Mum tells me and she always talks more of Grandma than Granddad. He's a figure on paper but not real to me like my other grandparents.
Like Dad, whose name it was I saw on that grave.
Like Dad, whose name it was I saw on that grave.
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