Montreal, QC.

A couple months ago I took Tom home to meet my family.
The french half at least.
It didn't feel like a big deal until I got there and realized how much it was.
To everyone.
Even me.
The excitement was tangible.
Of course they ate him up.
No boy had ever made it through those doors.
Not for lack of options on my part, but more of a lack of qualifications on theirs.
Finally, in waltzed a man.
There stood potential and possibilities in the flesh.
It felt comfortable and right and a year too late.

It began with food poisoning, progressed with speeding tickets (one each), peaked with seven family members accompanying a seven course meal, thrived on Ping Pong death matches and eased into loose translations.
No pictures.
No tourism.
Just family time.

I hadn't planned on going to the Cemetery; haven't been since it was set in stone.
Something about bringing my boyfriend home to meet my family AND introducing him to my father's resting place in the span of 48 hours just seemed like a little much...
My step-Mom insisted the flowers needed watering.
By me.
Upon arrival I quickly realized the flowers are actually fake, and the few that aren't are sprinkler accessible.
She's smooth, that one.

So there we were at the edge of his grave.
What do you do?
What do you say?
What about the poor schmuck who was lured here under false flower pretenses?
I love graveyards, but not everyone holds the same regard.
Particularly when you actually know one of its inhabitants.
Or are "meeting" one for the first time.
How long do you stare at a slab of stone without thoughts of what's underneath creeping in?
Do you exchange pleasantries?
Headstone this is Tom, Tom this is the Headstone.
No.

That's not my Dad.
He's not there.
He's at home.
He's in the pictures that still adorn the walls.
He's in the lego house on his office table.
He's on our answering machine.
He's in my reflection.
He's in my Aunt's laugh and my Uncle's quiet observance and powerful sarcasm.
He's in the ping pong paddles and the creak on the fifth basement step.
He's in my Grandmother's unconditional love for anything that has a pulse.
He's in my Grandfather's parental pride, even if he can't remember anymore.
He's in the family prayer we still utter at the end of each night in the room he once shared.
He's in a world I can't see, but a place I can feel.

With an empty water bottle in hand (you better believe I did my darnd-est to help those pipe cleaner stems grow!) I turned to leave.
More powerful than any pictures, any words, any formalities or expected behaviors, was Tom's simple reaction.
In a steady embrace on firmly planted feet, he took me in his arms and held me tight.
We just stood there.
Calm. Quiet. Reflecting. Accepting.
Nothing spoke but the wind, nothing moved but our hearts.
It was exactly what I needed and I didn't even know it.

I brought my boyfriend home and, in ways as unconventional as I am, introduced him to my Dad.