sins of the father.

Today we buried my father's father.

Ten years ago we'd laid his youngest son, my father, to rest.

Much as I did while seated at my dad's memorial service, I found myself pondering unasked questions and wondering why emotions run so strong and so near the surface only when there no longer exists the opportunity to share them with the source.

I listened as my uncle shared touching and heartfelt recollections of my grandfather's sacrifices, his humor and his love for people.  He was right.

While I listened, though, I wondered why grandchildren and great-grandchildren had had so little opportunity to experience these attributes first-hand.  As kids, we hadn't had any say in the matter and embraced the little time granted without further consideration.  But as adults and, eventually, parents ourselves, we hadn't made any greater effort to seek out the company of a man from whom we'd accepted a certain degree of detachment.  We bemoaned the lack of closeness and loved the man in spite of it.  I did, at least.  But proactive steps to diminish the gap were not taken.

And now the chance to take those steps is gone.

I hope that Lily and Piper are decades removed from having to give account of how their parents provided for them and of the lives their parents led. When reporting that their father loved to run and immensely enjoyed hiking and camping with his friends, may they not believe those activities to have been pursued at the expense of the time and attention owed them.

May they never question if they were loved or that they mattered most of all to their mother and father.

They are and they do.