The Cornerstone under the Capstone

The Cornerstone under the Capstone

I know you’re not under that stone,

but I feel close to you just the same.

The remains of your earthy tent

laying only six feet away from mine

cry out from the damp ground

as I cry into that fresh laid sod.

Lined among the veteran dead

you’re tucked in liveried ranks

just another ivory headstone

among so many, yet set apart,

only one Charles Frank Holdridge,

the cornerstone under the capstone.

You were our rock, dad.

We little stones are getting along ok.

I suppose we have little choice,

but our resuming life doesn’t mean

we aren’t groping to retrieve what’s lost.

There are dad-shaped holes buried inside,

no matter what we try to fill them with,

they don’t quite fit nor fill.

It’s my ambition to live to honor you.

It’s no good folding up my tent

calling it quits before my time.

I’ve felt increased passion,

a strengthening of calling even

since you breathed your last.

On May 15^th I grabbed your mantle, dad—

A double-portion of your spirit

infused mine to number my days.

It’s both surreal and serene this side

of that grave where you lay.

There is a peace in knowing you’re free

and an ache in knowing you’re gone.

We weren’t created to die,

so grief loiters and lingers

surfacing in inexplicable moments

reminding me of your absence.

I welcome the lament, the longing.

Then I lean back into life again,

Living to leave my mark

As you have left yours.

Until we meet again.