My father hasn't been alive for ten years and I still haven't set foot on his grave.
Not because our last words were bad or sad.
But because I'm so afraid to just know that he's lying underneath the earth.
That he was once up here, instead of down there.

I don't even ask my mother where he is buried because I fear that she will be ashamed that I don't know.
I'm going to find his grave this summer and I will sit down with him and tell him about the last ten and a half years of my life and how much he has missed.

And I can't help but hope that he's proud of who I am and who I am becoming.