"Get it, Deb..."
I couldn't speak. If I were to try, I'd probably burst out into tears balling in the middle of the farm. Something came over me that I haven't felt in a long time -- I can't even explain it. I was doing "okay" -- I wasn't this upset lately. At least, I didn't think I was. As the Christmas carols blared out of the small speakers they had up above, I just kept getting flashbacks of my father's preparations for Christmas. I soon snapped out of it and then realized that Dad's "resting area" for his ashes was in the strangest area to which he requested -- make that to which he "demanded". I used to make fun of him asking, "Why there? I don't get it? Why there?" He would laugh at me and tell me to "fuggedaboudit". It was a place he went just to sit and think, have his cigarette and daydream a while. He and my mother would sit there together talking in that very spot. I may not know exactly why he wanted his ashes placed there, but to him it meant everything. So be it.
"No, too creepy, "I said, still staring at the wreath. "This belongs on an actual plot or grave."
I could actually hear him laughing at me saying, "Oh God! How crazy dis' kid is!" He would always take off his glasses to wipe the tears of laughter from his eyes when I would mess with him.
"The nut doesn't fall too far from the tree, Dad..."
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