more memories of him than I do.
My memories fit in two hands.
The funeral ends. Somebody plays the piano— Someone To Watch Over Me —Dad’s favorite song.
I glare at the closed casket, jaw aching.
It’s over.
I look around the chapel. People stare at me. Judy’s elbow nudges my ribs. “You’re a pallbearer,” she hisses. “Go.”
I’m supposed to carry the casket.
I stand at the front. Everyone around me is old. Strangers.
The casket is heavier than I expect. We parade out into the afternoon Los Angeles sun. It’s winter, but I start to sweat. We walk quietly in step to the waiting hearse, the back door wide open.
Is he really dead? Inside this box? The sight of that long, death car makes my spine twitch. If it was me, I’d burst from the confinement right now.
I didn’t get to see him die, so I don’t know if he’s really dead. I didn’t get to see him in the casket—Judy ordered it closed. How do I know he’s really gone? Maybe this is an act?
What if it’s a lie?
What if it isn’t really over? If he’s really back at the house, sitting in that chair he loved, the one in front of the glass doors that face the back yard, the pool. The pool I swam in when I was a kid.
He’d watched me.
I’d wanted a dad who could jump in and play with me. Not a dad who lowered himself into a patio chair like his body might break if he moved too fast.
My head plays a dream: me opening the casket revealing its emptiness.
Dad. Still alive. Still time for us.
* * *
After the funeral, there’s supposed to be a ‘gathering’ at Dad and Judy’s. There’s no way I’m going to stand around and watch her play widow to an audience. I don’t know any of their friends, and she’s made it clear I have two weeks to “get my act together and get out.”
The moment the limo drops us at the house I steal into the guest bedroom—the place I’ve been living in since I moved in—and I strip out of the shirt, tie, jacket and dress slacks. I pull on my board shorts and a tee shirt, slide my feet into flip flops and grab a striped beach towel.
Dad gave me the keys to his old, orange and white VW Van when I turned sixteen. In spite of our distant relationship, the gift had been the coolest thing ever. The beast is in primo condition. Only has 70,000 miles on it. “VW’s are easy to fix,” he told me when he dropped the keys in my palm. “They run forever and they’re fun. Girls like them.”
That was true. When I’d driven the car to school, my friends—especially the girls—had all noticed.
I sneak out the back door, because there are already crowds arriving. If I don’t hurry, my car will be pinned in the driveway. A few dark-clothed, older people shuffling from their cars to the house raise their brows when I ram the van in gear and speed down the drive and into the street.
Relieved, I buzz through the winding streets of Bel Air. I need this. It takes me thirty minutes to get to the Santa Monica beach. I squeeze into a spot along Pacific Coast Highway, park and grab my wetsuit. I tuck my board under my arm and I’m out of the car and into the cool winter sun.
My mood’s crap. I’m angry. Scared.
What’s next for me?
The chilly sidewalk doesn’t hurt my bare feet, my soles are tough as leather. I cross the sidewalk and my pulse races. I can’t wait to dive into the waves even though they’re not much to look at today.
The beach is empty, the sea mild.
Part of me wishes it was choppy, that a red flag was up at the life guard station.
I pull on my wetsuit and dive. Cold salt water nips at my exposed skin. It rushes over my body, filling my ears and nose. The massive strength in the ocean cradles me, lures me, and pulls me out further. I come up for air, swim west.
And keep swimming.
If I go too far, the endless power will carry my insignificant weight into oblivion. A rush of hot tears spills from my eyes and I go under again. No tears.
They’re lost at sea.
Mom’s face
My memories fit in two hands.
The funeral ends. Somebody plays the piano— Someone To Watch Over Me —Dad’s favorite song.
I glare at the closed casket, jaw aching.
It’s over.
I look around the chapel. People stare at me. Judy’s elbow nudges my ribs. “You’re a pallbearer,” she hisses. “Go.”
I’m supposed to carry the casket.
I stand at the front. Everyone around me is old. Strangers.
The casket is heavier than I expect. We parade out into the afternoon Los Angeles sun. It’s winter, but I start to sweat. We walk quietly in step to the waiting hearse, the back door wide open.
Is he really dead? Inside this box? The sight of that long, death car makes my spine twitch. If it was me, I’d burst from the confinement right now.
I didn’t get to see him die, so I don’t know if he’s really dead. I didn’t get to see him in the casket—Judy ordered it closed. How do I know he’s really gone? Maybe this is an act?
What if it’s a lie?
What if it isn’t really over? If he’s really back at the house, sitting in that chair he loved, the one in front of the glass doors that face the back yard, the pool. The pool I swam in when I was a kid.
He’d watched me.
I’d wanted a dad who could jump in and play with me. Not a dad who lowered himself into a patio chair like his body might break if he moved too fast.
My head plays a dream: me opening the casket revealing its emptiness.
Dad. Still alive. Still time for us.
* * *
After the funeral, there’s supposed to be a ‘gathering’ at Dad and Judy’s. There’s no way I’m going to stand around and watch her play widow to an audience. I don’t know any of their friends, and she’s made it clear I have two weeks to “get my act together and get out.”
The moment the limo drops us at the house I steal into the guest bedroom—the place I’ve been living in since I moved in—and I strip out of the shirt, tie, jacket and dress slacks. I pull on my board shorts and a tee shirt, slide my feet into flip flops and grab a striped beach towel.
Dad gave me the keys to his old, orange and white VW Van when I turned sixteen. In spite of our distant relationship, the gift had been the coolest thing ever. The beast is in primo condition. Only has 70,000 miles on it. “VW’s are easy to fix,” he told me when he dropped the keys in my palm. “They run forever and they’re fun. Girls like them.”
That was true. When I’d driven the car to school, my friends—especially the girls—had all noticed.
I sneak out the back door, because there are already crowds arriving. If I don’t hurry, my car will be pinned in the driveway. A few dark-clothed, older people shuffling from their cars to the house raise their brows when I ram the van in gear and speed down the drive and into the street.
Relieved, I buzz through the winding streets of Bel Air. I need this. It takes me thirty minutes to get to the Santa Monica beach. I squeeze into a spot along Pacific Coast Highway, park and grab my wetsuit. I tuck my board under my arm and I’m out of the car and into the cool winter sun.
My mood’s crap. I’m angry. Scared.
What’s next for me?
The chilly sidewalk doesn’t hurt my bare feet, my soles are tough as leather. I cross the sidewalk and my pulse races. I can’t wait to dive into the waves even though they’re not much to look at today.
The beach is empty, the sea mild.
Part of me wishes it was choppy, that a red flag was up at the life guard station.
I pull on my wetsuit and dive. Cold salt water nips at my exposed skin. It rushes over my body, filling my ears and nose. The massive strength in the ocean cradles me, lures me, and pulls me out further. I come up for air, swim west.
And keep swimming.
If I go too far, the endless power will carry my insignificant weight into oblivion. A rush of hot tears spills from my eyes and I go under again. No tears.
They’re lost at sea.
Mom’s face
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