Today, I received word that my dad's gravestone has been laid, along with a photograph to prove it (not that I was in any doubt).
It's these things you can be a little unsure how you'll react to; it was like seeing his coffin at the funeral or carrying his ashes casket at the burial. There's a sense of finality and actuality that can be a little unsettling if don't prepare yourself for it. But any time I worry, I remind myself that it's just my dad and I love him, and I needn't be afraid, because there'll never be a reason to be frightened when he's nearby, ever.
When the paramedic asked if I wanted to see him when I arrived minutes after he'd died, I faltered for a moment. But I quickly mentally corrected myself, because I knew I had a responsibility to him as my dad, and because I knew he'd need me. He told me more than once towards the end that I made him less afraid when I was there, so I was glad there was a way I could actively help (which is often an impossibility when someone you love is fighting a terminal illness).
And unsurprisingly, he looked peaceful. He looked like he'd just fallen asleep (something I was so used to seeing as he'd often drop off mid-sentence). And I had a chance to tell him I loved him and that I was sorry for the many times I took him for granted and that I'd always be grateful for what he gave me and that I'd carry him in my heart. But most important of all, I hoped he wasn't afraid anymore (which was the thought in my head when I lowered his casket into his grave a few months later).
(I'm well aware this doesn't make for light reading).
As for the stone itself, I hope he'd appreciate the gentle joke on it. I just wanted to express an aspect of his personality, so it reflected him and wasn't just a run-of-the-mill Rest in Peace-style platitude. Because my dad was a one-off. And as the stone says, he's still close: in the hearts and minds of all the people who loved him (and he swore at).