Three Feet Under

Funerals are never pleasant, especially not when it's a relative. In this case, my father. His ashes were laid to rest this morning, in the grounds of a church out in the village his second wife (now widow) lives in. I attended, less for his memory than to show solidarity with the rest of my immediate family present. It's particularly bad for my grandparents- one gradually comes to terms with the fact that you'll have to bury your parents one day, but to bury one of your children, no matter how old they are, must have been exceptionally hard.
I suppose, to an extent, I got off light. I didn't really know my father- my parents split up when I was nine, and for most of the time previous to that my father had worked abroad, meaning I rarely saw him at the best of times. I'd heard pretty much nothing from or of him in fifteen years. I'm often reminded that my parents' breaking up was probably one of the better things to happen to me- if they hadn't, I wouldn't have ended up in the Netherlands, wouldn't have schooled at the ISH, wouldn't have got my IB diploma, most likely wouldn't have gone to University, and wouldn't have met all the wonderful people I count as friends wherever they are on the globe. And, most likely, would have grown up without a father-figure present. My parents splitting up gave me a father, ironic as it may sound.
I suppose the big question left for me to find an answer for is where to go from here. Even before I heard of his death I'd convinced myself I wasn't going to make the same mistakes as my father, and that still holds true. I've wondered occasionally if he thought of me, and now I'm unlikely to find out. I can't say I though of him much, or thought much of him. Still, he was my father, and I guess, somewhere along the line, I have to give him credit for that. Sayonara, Oduu-san.