I went to the cemetery today.
There was a funeral being held, with many black-clad mourners sniffling, and weeping as the Minister spoke words from the Good Book.
I've never been one for funerals, and would usually avoid them, but I found myself drawn closer to the service instead.
They lowered the casket, and the crowd dispersed; only my son remained, staring intently into the hole.
I hadn't seen him in a couple years because of a heated argument, and wanted desperately to reconcile with him.
He wouldn't look at me, but kept tearfully whispering "I'm sorry, Dad."