March 31: the first Easter since Sarah died. May 12: the first Mother’s Day since Sarah died.  May 27: the first Memorial Day since Sarah died, and a visit to clean and decorate the grave.  June 5: a first birthday with no air-gasping hug from my sister.  The firsts will continue to come: Tracy’s birthday, sons’ and daughters’ and grandchildren’s birthdays, Independence Day bar-b-q, Thanksgiving dinner, Dad’s 89^th birthday, Christmas with its matching pajamas and Lego sets, banging on dented New Year pans with dented ladles, Sarah’s 52^nd  And January 17: the first anniversary of her death.  I have felt dissatisfied with how the cemetery workers filled her grave, leaving large low spots and rocky grassless patches.  Tracy and Gabe (5) met me graveside, where we filled the low spots with new soil and sprinkled fescue and rye grass seed, and decorated the grave with American flags and plastic flowers, and a border garland of red, white, and blue stars.  Gabe hefted the watering can and moistened the new grass and soil, refilling from the five-gallon bucket I held.  After finishing our work, we sat on a blanket, at first saying nothing, then describing matter-of-factly how Sarah was buried nine feet down, and how someday Tracy would be buried above her, and how when it was his turn to go, Gabe would be buried in the adjacent grave, possibly with me nine feet deep and him above me, since I am 55 years older than he.  The conversation felt natural and comfortable, like assigning seats at the Sunday dinner table, or dividing up the new batch of steaming chocolate-chip cookies amongst the children.  I had assumed Mom would want to come to the grave with me, as she had done before, but she flatly declared, I’m not going.  I offered to take Dad, despite the difficulties of transporting him, and he echoed sadly, I’m not going.  He has not seen Sarah’s grave yet, and may never, and I respect his feelings of preferring to see the framed print of his living smiling daughter.  No matter: when I returned, spent, I cast the photos to their old TV, and they were glad.  “That was a good thing you did, Rog,” said Dad.  And I thought I guessed it was.