A Sunday Drive

My parents and I wound our way into D.C. and my father parked the car behind some obscure but fancy little church. As we walked toward the church, my father announced that this is where they were to be buried.
This post was published on the now-closed HuffPost Contributor platform. Contributors control their own work and posted freely to our site. If you need to flag this entry as abusive, send us an email.

The last official weekend of summer has officially passed, and I am reminded of one Sunday a few years ago when my parents and I went for a nice Sunday drive, down through Chevy Chase and into Northwest Washington, just like we did when I was a kid. Once in a while, when I was growing up, the four of us would pile into the '68 Pontiac Catalina (a lovely olive green with black vinyl top) and just drive around aimlessly looking at houses. As kids, my sister and I found this exercise to be pointless and boring, but my parents seemed to get a real kick out of seeing all the improvements people were making to the homes they had known for years, since they had grown up here as well. My sister and I mostly argued quietly in the backseat and poked at each other to the point where we also quietly drew blood.

But I digress.

So here we were, my parents and I, cruising around on a gorgeous September afternoon. They would slow as we grew closer to a particular house, then tell me whose house it was and rattle off a list of things they did to change it. I was fascinated! Isn't it funny how things change? We saw big monstrous mansions where smaller homes used to stand, and it was really quite amazing. Too bad my sister wasn't there.

We wound our way into D.C. and my father parked the car behind some obscure but fancy little church I'd never heard of, and out we all jumped as if we had a purpose for being there. As we walked down the sidewalk toward the church, my father announced that this is where they were to be buried. Certain I had heard him wrong, I sincerely replied, "Excuse me?"

It's a statement we all know is coming at some point in our lives, but somehow, hearing it is a real mood killer.

We strolled through the lovely gardens, rich with autumn colors, beautiful azaleas and other plants, and I thought to myself this would actually be a cool place to spend eternity, I guess. This thought occurred to me as we descended a set of stone steps, and just as it did, my parents stopped walking.

My father smiled proudly and said "well... what do you think?" and gestured downward.

I looked down and saw my parents' names etched into a small stone step, with dates of birth and dashes pointing ominously toward their undetermined departure dates. A chill ran down the back of my neck, and being a true Miller, I internalized the fact that this completely freaked me out and calmly said, "Oh wow, I didn't know you could do that. Neat."

What's really embarrassing is the fact that now I have no idea where this church of the eternal staircase is or what it was called. I hope someone tells me before I need to know. Even more embarrassing is the fact that one of my first thoughts after I collected myself was that I apparently don't have a reservation in the family steps. Perhaps I can put my own spin on this new tradition and find a spot in a nearby Metro escalator, given my peculiar claim to fame.

Sunday drives are so interesting. You just never know where you're going to end up.

Popular in the Community

Close

What's Hot