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His name is misspelled on his headstone. 

I notice this as I stand at his grave for the first time since the funeral.

Over a year ago I stood near this same spot as my dad’s casket was lowered into the ground. I didn’t think I would ever be able to move from the spot. It was the closest I would ever be to my dad. My aunt had to lead me by the hand to the car so I could be one of the guests of honor at the memorial luncheon. I don’t remember walking or getting in the car or arriving at the restaurant, but the stack of sympathy cards on my nightstand assures me I participated.

Until today, I hadn’t been able to come back. I found reasons using a combination of the Kübler-Ross five stages of grief and created excuses. I had driven to the cemetery twice, but the black wrought iron fence and gates that surround the massive cemetery reminded me of the finality of the space and that many who went in never came out.

I decided in the shower this morning that today would be the day I ventured over the threshold. I stand here shocked that my dad’s first name is spelled wrong. 

Edin, not Edwin. I know my mom has been her at least a dozen times since the stone was placed. Hadn’t other family members been here too? Had anyone noticed?

I text my mom and wait for her usually labored return response. She can’t leave behind her years as an English teacher even in text.

The grass has filled in around the stone. And my dad’s plot location ideal, except for those of us who have to find it in a different season and in a different year than the last visit. I walked in circles for twenty minutes trying to find his location. 

I could have sworn it was closer to the to the mausoleum not the grand oak tree. I am glad he is near the oak. Dad gets some shade during these hot summer days.

My phone rings. My mom is appalled. First that the monument company wouldn’t check their work. Second that she didn’t notice.

“I have stared at that grave for hours at a time. How could I have overlooked something so important?”

The last year has been hard on my mom. The entire duration of my dad’s illness was thirty-one days from diagnosis to death. Barely a month to try to squeeze in as many “I love you’s” and “You can beat this” before he could not hear either.

She blames herself for not being ready for him to die and her subsequent grieving, but won’t tell you this because she is fine. Fine as a good bottle of wine poured into crystal flutes she says. I would describe her more as watered-down concert beer spilled on the ground. Too thin, moving in too many directions as to not fully close one path. She needs to see a therapist, but refuses to talk to anyone but to my dad’s cat, Ernie.

She is sobbing and trying to compose herself to lead the conversation like she led her classes.

“Can you go over to Crestwood Monuments across the street from the cemetery? We need to get this fixed immediately.”

I want to tell her that I need to stay by the grave, stand there and give myself time to have a peaceful visit. The name has been misspelled for a year. We know he is buried there and that is honestly all that matters.

“Besides you, who has visited dad’s grave since the funeral?” As soon as I ask the question, I know my heart spoke way before consulting with my brain. The question is legit. My timing is crap.

“Don’t you question my loyalty or anyone else’s for that matter. I asked you to do something and I expect an answer in the next hour.”

I know this is her grief talking. My mom is a kind and patient person. She had to be dealing three thousand or so high schoolers over the years while raising my brother and I. I know I must respond the way I would have back years ago when she asked me to take out the garbage or rake the leaves. I know she needs my thirty-six-year-old self to be ten.

“I will call you when I have answers.”

I can almost see Crestwood Monuments from my dad’s grave, but getting there requires me to purposefully create a mental map out of the cemetery sans the five turnarounds I made entering. 

I pass the chapel and see mourners outside waiting their chance to follow the casket’s procession through the doors for a final blessing and good bye. My mother opted for the graveside service. I am sure the those involved in this service considered all the options.

I pass by the cemetery office where I stopped when I admitted I did not know where I was going. The automated kiosk inside gave me a map much like the one I might get an amusement park. Only the “You are Here” X is replaced with a cross marking the location of the gravesite. I hadn’t realized that Catholic cemeteries were also replacing people with machines.

The parking lot for Crestwood Monuments is tiny, six spots total in a space should hold maybe three, which makes its post-modern brick building seem huge. A sign for overflow parking directs customers to the banquet facility next door. I wonder how often they have a rush of grieving families to use the extra spaces.

I see through the wall of front windows sample gravesites displaying death markers large and small, decorated with faux grass and flowers. If I had not known what they sold, I may have thought they were some type of Boho or shabby chic outdoor shop.

A well-groomed young professional greets me.

“You must be Elaine. Your mom told me you were coming to discuss an error on your dad’s headstone, correct?”

I shake my head and follow the name-badged “Scott” to a large table covered in stone samples of all colors. I do not know if they are all the same type of stone or different varieties, but they are surprisingly beautiful as they glisten in the sunlight.

“Please sit. Sal, the owner will be with you momentarily.”

I notice catalogs on the table and open one up the “moderate plus memorial makers” section. I flip through the catalog like I would any other forgetting that I am looking at products to remember people after they have died. The catalog’s design team has done an impressive job at decoying death’s pain in its layouts.

Sal looks like exactly like the person who I think would own the store. A late middle-aged man who resembles a sales person and a funeral home director combined. I am guessing the store has been in his family for generations and Scott is somehow connected to Sal’s family. 

I realize that I am creating this story in my head to block out the pangs of awkwardness I am feeling. When I decided to visit my dad, I did not think I would have to correct type-o’s because he died.

“Elaine,” he said while gently touching my shoulder. “I am so sorry for the loss of your dad and the error you found today. Can’t say this happens much.”

He placed the “Smoot, Edwin” file on the table and produced a sketching of the headstone and the invoice. 

I cannot believe my mother my mother paid nearly three-thousand dollars for the slab. I blurt out, “This seems like a lot of money. I should have come to help her pick out the stone.”

Sal tries to reassure that the cost of the stone is justified especially since my mom wanted a stack of carved books chiseled as a special tribute to my dad’s favorite hobby. My dad read all genre’s and publications types. A self-described consumer of knowledge, he never said a bad word about anything he read even if the piece deserved criticism.

I pause and feel my eyes pool with tears at the irony of me trying to correct the spelling on his headstone and him never finding anything wrong even the worst told stories. 

I check the invoice and my dad’s name is spelled correctly. Could I have been at the wrong grave? 

I didn’t notice the books’ tribute.

I lost my sense of direction.

Isn’t Edin a woman’s name?

Sal points to scribbles on the invoice that he says they are his initials. Her personally checks every monument within a week of its installation.

“Mistakes in my line of work are unacceptable. I offer you my deepest apologies,” he says in a calm, but distraught voice. “I will make this right for you and your family.”

My disgust not at him, but at the situation slowly leaks.

“I don’t understand how we missed this for a year. I feel like we dishonored my dad’s memory.”

“In my business, I have learned that grief follows no time table and masks itself in a multitude of ways.” Sal pauses. “Accept this as one of the many moments in your grief journey.”

Sal could be a therapist. His demeanor, naturally concerned. His words, poignantly abbreviated and on target. I should have my mom call him instead of a MSW.

“Elaine, at no time will your dad’s grave be without a marker.”

This reassures me on some levels. My dad will not be in an unmarked grave. And should someone want to visit dad before his name is corrected, they can still find his spot.

My dad has a spot. His permanent latitude and longitude. Is his spot like that of a dog christening a fire hydrant? 

I feel lost even though the error will be fixed. I came to the cemetery seeking solace and end up with an emotional and business death task to sort out. In my mind, I still have not been to the cemetery. I must go back even if my body longs for blocking out the world with a duvet and waffle weave blanket pulled over my head.

I find myself reactively driving back through the gates before my mind catches up. My legs follow my same subconscious instructions through the grass to my dad.

“Hi dad,” I say out loud as if he is physically standing in front of me. “We will get your name fixed.”

I reach down to clean off some tree debris that has dirtied the stone surface. I uncover the missing “w.” Edwin. Edwin with all of the letters.

I lay my head on his stone trying to comprehend my current feeling of insanity. I feel like a spectator in a magician’s showstopper of the impossible. Now I see it. Before I did not. Maybe I need glasses.

The summer breeze blows my curly wisps in my face. Through my obstructed view, I see the books that seem to have appeared on the stone’s surface. Perfectly chiseled replications of three books, stacked with subtle indentations to indicate each book’s individual pages.

His books filled only knowledge. No critiquing.

I feel my dad’s presence more than I did during his last living days or when I watched the crank system lower him into the ground.

And I understand.

I hear the message he is sending. He had no negative judgments in life or as I see, in death.

I had to miss seeing the letter to move past my judgments on how myself and others should grieve.

I cry, but am comforted by his creativity even through death. With me always.

I text my mom to apologize for my error.

I dial Crestwood’s number to apologize and relieve Sal of the credibility burden I had implied.

“Crestwood Memorial, this is Scott. How can I help you with your loss?”