In the light of life going on

The wind blew my skirt around like I was Marlyin Monroe. It surprisingly felt good. I hadn’t been outside in ages. In 20 years my dad had spent a fortune to give me the chance to be outside. It was upsetting and uplifting at the same time. My dad was a great man, he hadn’t had two dimes to rub together when he was my age. In this day and age, you couldn’t make it out of the social stance you were in. The economy is set, the government has their “secret” way to insure all of your money with the FDIC at banks, and federal law now provides you with such acomidations and propsolly keeps you at a fixed salery. My father worked and worked for it and created a wonderful program from me, but he wasn’t a healthy man, he often got sick because of a failing amune sytem. The program he created for me was a scienctific lab experiments to find a lation that I could put on to be outside. I was born allergic to sun light.
I remember my dad’s funeral, a sad one. It was a rainy Tuesday and I was devisated. He was my hero. My go to man, I loved him with all my heart, and the people at the funeral were all in black, I was in white, our favorite color we shared. My dad told me to be different. He hated black. It was my first funeral, considering I’d never left my house before, and all of the flowers and gifts were over wheleming to me. I was asked to speak at his funeral. I told the crowd that I may not be able to hug him but he would never die out of our love, which I indeed ment with all my heart. I never finshed my speech because I sobbed at the end, I just had to turn and look at him. That saddened me further, making me reperhence in spirting to my room. I didn’t get to go to his burial because it was out side, obviously. So there was only one place I wanted to go. I called a taxi and went to Forest Home Cementary, where my dad lay. I cried as I paided, Al, the taxi driver. Stepping out of the car I took out a piece of paper from my purse. On it, it read where my dad lay. I had a dozen white roses, his favorite. I kept bawling my eyes out. My cell phone went off, 555.8310, my mom, probly wondering why I didn’t have her come with me on my first vist to the out side world. But this was personal, this was about Dad. I couldn’t find his grave at first so I waltzed around looking at other graves. Tears streamed down my face as thought about what pain people had gone through when losing these wonderful people. There was one grave that stood out to me, a three-year-old’s grave. It read: Molly Peterson 1950-1953 Loving Sister and Daughter
That one stuck out at me because I noticed an older women standing by the stone head, crying, wrose then me. I figured it was her mother, and just seeing this woman made me wonder what I would do when I saw my dad’s grave. I finally went to the front office at the cementary. I asked if they could help me find the grave. They gave me explict directions and I followed them. I walked up to my dad’s grave. It read: William Fanning 1945-2006 Loving Father, Husband, and Friend. I suddenly stopped crying, I don’t know why, I just did, and I said seven little words, ”Thanks Dad, we did it, I’m here.”