It took me almost 25 years to go visit my grandfather’s grave. Being neither religiously inclined nor a cemetery visitor, I say goodbye to people I love and remember them in my heart.  But I felt I needed to make this trip for one reason: to make sure the gravesite was receiving perpetual care.
I drove there on his birthday; I hadn’t been there since they placed him into the newly dug hole, so I didn’t remember exactly where it was. I walked slowly around the area, growing hot and sweaty as I avoided stepping on gravestones set flush in the uneven ground. Just as I was ready to give up and leave, I happened to glance behind me and there it was—his headstone. It was perfect, with lovely scrolls near the corner and his name, birth and death date exactly as they should be. Perpetual care was evident in the neatly trimmed ivy covering his grave. Placing a stone on his marker, I bowed my head for a silent moment, not knowing any formal prayers to say. Then I stood quietly, feeling good about finally doing my duty.
I had loved him dearly but have now only a few gems of childhood memory. To this day I wish we could have shared more time, especially as I became an adult. I hadn’t seen him the weekend before he died as my sister did, and I wish I had. I silently sent him love; he was a wonderful person.
Just as I began to leave, the tall clump of grass to my right moved. A beautiful fawn stood up, looked over its shoulder at me, shook its little tail and moved on its incredibly long, thin legs away and out of my sight. I took a last look at my grandfather’s resting place, and I left.
As luck would have it, I lunched with a friend, and I related the story of the fawn. She has a strong faith; it was an angel, she explained, who waited there until I was ready to say goodbye again. When I did, she said, the fawn was moving on to await the next person who needed to do a duty of visitation respect. The tears came for me, and I felt that perhaps her words might be true. The day was cathartic if disturbing…