“That is perhaps what we seek throughout life, that and nothing more, the greatest possible sorrow so as to become fully ourselves before dying.”
― Louis-Ferdinand Céline, Journey to the End of the Night
I visited my father’s grave for the first time yesterday – 16 years after his death. We stayed a whopping 20 minutes, tops. I didn’t have more in me. I spent the evening trying to process the whole experience… I don’t know what to do with it.
At the crematory, my father was first given to me on a piece of paper, as number LN-001-3151. He was to be found at the Ste-Rose Columbarium. There are a lot of dead people in a funeral home, and without a guide, you can easily get lost and end up paying respects to some random ashes, which would kind of suck, especially if you bought flowers, because flowers are expensive, and they’re also perishable, but that’s a whole different post.
It took a little while to find his hole in the wall. It was my wife who discovered the lot: “Le Clown, I found some Robillard, but the guy looks like a priest…“. My father did indeed love God, preached even when we wished he’d shut up, and never smiled. It was him.
I walked to his resting place, and my thoughts went wild: “You fucking bastard; you’re such an asshole; I miss you; you’ve inflicted so much pain on us; you selfish fuck; I love you; please come back, I forgive you; you would have loved Sara, but not so sure about Lord Evil Poppy; I’m hungry; what the hell am I doing here; this is so unreal; why isn’t there a brass plate with your name on it; I want to leave…“
And we left, after I peed. And cried. And cried. 16 years of tears.