My
father kissed me on the cheek just before I drove away. He leaned in the driver's side window of my car and simply and gently kissed my cheek. I felt his smooth cheek against mine, a familiar softness that brought a soothing feeling to my busy mind.
I was 23.
A week later, I received a call from my brother that my dad had unexpectedly had a heart attack and died. At his funeral, I was grateful that my last contact with him was that gentle kiss. As I listened to the kind words about him, I judged myself for not crying. I thought I should be crying, yet I felt no tears.
Decades later, I was staying with my 18 year old son in a big hotel in Los Angeles. I looked out the window over the freeways,and realized that we were across the street from the cemetery where my father was buried.
I asked my son if he wanted to meet the grandfather he never knew. "Sure," he said. We climbed over a fence, crossed a wide street, then over an eight-foot high cemetery fence. (They were closed on Saturday). I had no idea where his grave site was among the thousands of headstones.
Expecting a long adventure, we created a plan to walk parallel, searching row by row for his name among the thousands of gravestones. One minute in, our search ended. We looked down to discover my father’s grave site, his name and date of death inscribed in the stone. He showed up unexpectedly. My son stared at the stone. I knelt down, my knees at the edge of the stone. I read his name. I cried.
A week later, I received a call from my brother that my dad had unexpectedly had a heart attack and died. At his funeral, I was grateful that my last contact with him was that gentle kiss. As I listened to the kind words about him, I judged myself for not crying. I thought I should be crying, yet I felt no tears.
Decades later, I was staying with my 18 year old son in a big hotel in Los Angeles. I looked out the window over the freeways,and realized that we were across the street from the cemetery where my father was buried.
I asked my son if he wanted to meet the grandfather he never knew. "Sure," he said. We climbed over a fence, crossed a wide street, then over an eight-foot high cemetery fence. (They were closed on Saturday). I had no idea where his grave site was among the thousands of headstones.
Expecting a long adventure, we created a plan to walk parallel, searching row by row for his name among the thousands of gravestones. One minute in, our search ended. We looked down to discover my father’s grave site, his name and date of death inscribed in the stone. He showed up unexpectedly. My son stared at the stone. I knelt down, my knees at the edge of the stone. I read his name. I cried.
