I’ve had the grace of never being in this particular situation. I have had the grace for at one time in my life, most of the people I knew were interred. You get to see some crazy things that way. Once there was a group of teens that were “practicing being dead” not far away from my dad’s grave. Welp they looked like asses laying across gravestones in a section reserved for the burnt to crisp form of burial. My favorite was the family who took an afternoon trip to the graveyard to get some life experiences. The mother and father were driving the mini van around the graveyard encouraging the children to run and play and jump on the head stones. I stopped their van and asked them exactly what the fuck they were doing. “We are teaching them that death is okay.” “Its not fucking okay, my whole family lives here. People put their last dimes into buying a stone to remember someone they will never see again. You get the fuck out of here and tell your kids you love them and get the fuck out of here.” I am still insanely proud of myself for being an asshole in earshot of my dad’s unmarked grave, even if my face was soaked with gross emotion. So I guess there was something I wanted my dad to hear.

(Source: yerawizardharry)