At Dad's Grave

Flying back to the states from France. Looked out across the sky. Clouds, pink at sunset. Dad, are you there? Please, sometime, when you can: Tap me on the shoulder. So I’ll know everything will be all right. I just need to know everything’s going to be all right without you. Please.

We’d talk once a month. He’d call. January: He had a bad cough. February: He still had that bad cough. By March, they knew: Hodgkins. But they said they could treat it. He was a big strong guy. He could make it if he fought.

It was tough on him and my mom. She had trouble getting him out of the car sometimes after his treatments. I was in France. They were in L.A. I’d just finished college and started my first job. Should’ve come home to visit, at least. Not enough money, though.

He got better. Remission. A year after he was first diagnosed. So he called his boss and said he could come back to work. Sorry, his boss said. Couldn’t hold your job for you. Stay on disability. His morale collapsed. A secondary infection set in, something like pneumonia. He died.

Had to change planes at Logan. The customs officer was a young woman. She looked at me as if I were the handsomest man in the world. It was St. Patrick’s Day. She was wearing antennae with four leaf clovers that said: “Kiss Me I’m Irish.” When she read my documents she said:

“Welcome home! Are you going to be staying in Boston for a while?”

“No, I’m flying to L.A.”

“Oh well. Have a great time.”

My father’s funeral was the next morning.

Greeted his old pals as they arrived. Then walked off to the side of the mortuary chapel. Sobbed and sobbed. Don’t think I’ve ever been that sad. It was over, dad and me. Never see him again. When that hits you, it’s something.

The years came, the years went. Moved back to Los Angeles to try to take care of mom. We didn’t get along. She was bitter that he died, resentful that I hadn’t been there to help her through it.

Met a neighbor from when I was a kid. She told me: Hey, the house you used to live in, it flooded. Flooded? We were on top of a hill. From the inside, she explained. The pipes burst. The ones that carry the water upstairs. The people came back one day and opened the door and whoosh. Water flowed out. The house had to be gutted and rebuilt. That night I dreamt I went up in the attic of the house to find the leaky pipes. And my dad was there. He hadn’t died. It was one of those dreams where you think it’s not a dream, it’s happening. Dad! How could you have done this? I had to, he said. I had to fake my own death. I was overcome. But I needed you! I shouted at him. I love you!

Woke up. So upset. Ruined the day. Maybe the week.

Life got hard, then harder. Work. Money. Love. Nothing was easy, nothing went well. Bad decisions, one after the other. Dad, please, tap me on the shoulder. Tell me everything’s going to be OK. Please.

Everything went wrong. Company where I worked got taken over. Big pay cut. Could barely make rent. Couldn’t find another job. Got sick, really sick -- for six weeks. Three-stage malaria-type virus. Debilitating. Lost 20 pounds at least. High fever, 104, 105, 106 … then drenched with sweat, then chills.

Recuperated slowly. Years came, years went. One friend died, another was dying. Car crash -- almost died myself. Haven’t been living right, said to myself as my car flew into the air, then landed upside down.

Had to put mom in a nursing home. Dad, I did it. I went to his grave and told him. I took care of mom the best I could and now I’ve got her in a reasonable place. Settled back in to life. Work, money, love. Better decisions. Re-connected with religion. Started living right. Well, living better. Trying, at least. Dad? Are you there? Tap me on the shoulder, please.

More years came, more years went. Mom died. Buried her next to dad on a cloudy day, light rain. No one at the funeral. Dad, are you there?

Another year came, another year went. Visited dad at the cemetery one day. He’s buried under a big pine tree. Said the Kaddish, sanctifying and venerating the creator and asking that mom and dad be granted eternal peace. I had just read the history and legends of the Kaddish. One tale: A man in a carriage rides by a poor woman and her children. Carriage stops. The man asks the woman to recite the Kaddish for him. She does. Carriage disappears. Her pockets are filled with gold.

Sat down under the pine tree and recited the Kaddish again for mom and dad.

Suddenly: A tap on my shoulder.

I laughed. Bird shit, I thought to myself. While reciting the Kaddish. OK, I said. I’ve got a sense of humor. Bird shit. Asked for a tap on the shoulder. Got one. The messenger was a crow. Normally, I’d think bird shit was a sign of bad karma. But hey. I’d been asking for a tap on the shoulder for all these years. The important thing is I got one, right?

Didn’t look at first. Kept reciting the prayer until I was done. Then checked my shoulder. Expected to see a big mess on my black T-shirt.

But it wasn’t bird shit.

It was a big, beautiful drop of clear, shiny gooey gel. Didn’t know what it was at first. Found a little stick on the ground. Scraped some off and held it to my nose.

Pine sap. It looked beautiful. It smelled beautiful. It was beautiful. The most beautiful thing in the world.

Pine sap. From dad. To the tree. To my shoulder. The tap on the shoulder I’d been asking for all those years. I finally got it.

A non-believer might say: How unremarkable. You sat under a pine tree. A drop of pine sap fell on you. Big deal. To that I reply: Didn’t drop on my head. Didn’t drop on my hand. Didn’t drop on my pants. Dropped on my shoulder.

I’ve traveled. I’ve lived and loved, experienced pain and joy, satisfaction, contentment and defeat. Celebrated victories, too. I have seen and done many extraordinary things.

But that was my most intense moment, there, under that pine tree, saying the Kaddish that day at dad’s grave. I’d asked for that tap on the shoulder from him. And that day, after all those years, I got it. That tap on the shoulder. From beyond. Thanks, dad.