A Date to Remember?

I think today is the date of my father's death.  I know it was 1941.  I was eight years old.  I remember waking up wondering why no one got me up to go to school.  When I went to my mother's bedroom, she was with my Aunt Doris.  "Your father has died," they said.

I wore my good white dress to the funeral.  My mother leaned over the casket and cried: "Someday we will be together again.  Someday."

When she died, I asked Jo if she was going to be buried in Toledo next to our dad.  He said: "No, she's going to be here."

The eight year old inside me was confused.  I thought they would be together again.  The way she said and the way it's supposed to be.