The old Dodge melded with the ferns and undergrowth, the rusty metal molted with green moss. Determined underbrush tied it to the ground, and it stared at me with long dead eyes. Faded glass eyes that told me everything. The breath stuck in my throat as I fought my way to my daddy’s tomb.
Briars, like tiny claws scratched and tried to block my way, but my bloodied hands felt no pain. Tears finally swelled as I remembered the last day I’d seen him. That sunny morning sixty-six years ago. He’d tousled my hair, and told me; “Son, moss don’t grow on no rolling stone.” I hadn’t realized he was shut of life. I just knew he was never coming back.