Just a few pieces of white paper with Courier-style font. "Durable Power of Attorney..."

I'm an only child. I know that my parents will eventually be gone. And I joked with Dad through it as we talked about my responsibilities and benefits when my parents have both passed away. (He does not want balloons at his funeral. He said he wanted it to be a celebratory event, but...)

It was okay for a while. Then I had to get out of there.

When I was little, I panicked if I didn't say goodbye to my dad before he left for work. I ran to the bathroom window (open a crack even in the winter to let steam out--in the days before ceiling exhausts) and called out to him. If the old, wooden window frame was stuck, I banged on the glass until he turned. I signed out "I love you," and he nodded, waved, and continued on his way.

Always a fear of "what if." What if I didn't do it right? What if I didn't say goodbye? What if I disappointed him? What if...that was it?

Tonight, we made flippant comments about casket choices (not really going to care at that point!) and more pointed ones about my parents being buried in the cemetery where dad's parents are buried.

And that took me back to a tiny, two-stopsign town in Minnesota. A cemetery on a rise just a cornfield away from the church. Grandpa. Grandma.

Mom left Grandma's viewing before its official end, and Dad and I were the last ones left in the room. I'd avoided her until that point, but he was standing there. I slid my arm through his and he put his arm around me. And we stood there. Trying to be Norwegian about it, but running out of tissues anyway.

"You know, this is pretty special," Dad said, carefully controlling his voice. "Tomorrow, there will be people all around. This is pretty much the last time...the last time to say goodbye."

So maybe that's why I'm running out of tissues now? Wondering...who will be there with me?