Shine A Light On Me

I found myself unable to look at my dad’s pictures. I avoided them, literally wincing as I passed by. I couldn’t handle it for some reason. This would go on for almost a year. While looking through his wallet for something, I quickly flipped past his picture. In a hidden compartment was the secret embroidered heart that his sister had made. My mom told me the story when I was a kid. 

My dad’s younger and only sister Alicia, had died in a fire before age thirty. It happened when I was a baby. Our house phone had been off the hook, so my dad could rest while home from shift work, because back then you didn’t have a way to change the volume of the ring. A police officer had come to the house to deliver the news of her passing since we couldn’t be reached. 

My mom had told me this memory, about how my dad went into the bathroom and didn’t come out for a long time. There is a picture around this time after my aunt died, of me sitting like a joyful blob on my grandmother’s lap. She looks noticeably worn, tired, and distant in her eyes. It never occurred to me it was probably after Alicia had died. How do you lose a daughter? How did my grandmother endure that tragedy? 

The embroidered heart, with tiny red loops around the edge, looked brand new from being hidden away for so many decades. It had become carefully pressed and preserved. The man of few words, who cared little to possess much of anything, had carried this with him secretly for forty years. I never even knew about it until he died. Through this tiny, private relic, I could see how much my dad cared for and missed his sister though he had never uttered a single word about it to anyone.

•

A few weeks after my dad died, we were tasked with retrieving his ashes from a funeral home. The place was about fifteen minutes down the freeway. I’d seen the building but never paid it much attention. We’d driven by it thousands of times in our lives but you never think you’ll go there one day. By this time, we’d all fallen through the seven layers of hell, or so I thought. There were a lot of new silent communications to avoid “feelings.” We were all aware of the emotional weight of this task. So we did the most normal thing we could think of, we decided to make a day of it. 

There was an old mall way out in the same direction, known for extremely cheap matinees due to its barely functioning theater. We decided to go see a movie and stop on the way back to get my dad’s ashes. Kind of like hiding the medicine in a treat. We all needed and wanted a break. To do something different and normal, maybe even a little fun. We were trying to distribute the stress of what we’d be doing in desperate hopes that maybe it would be less excruciating.

So we went to the theater. I was set on seeing a new horror film whose ads had been all over the tv. My mom, being into that genre, was happy to oblige and go with me. Meanwhile, my sister took Josie to see a nice and appropriate fairy tale movie. With her little kid treat box in her hands, face above the mountain of snacks my niece yelped, “We’re not going to the same movie?” 

My sister soothed her away which took all of about twenty seconds. My mom and I watched our scary movie which turned out to be not so great. The only scary thing that happened was when my mom’s gigantic handbag slowly slid off the chair and fell to the ground, in an unexpected and terrifying thud! 

I still don’t know if we scared anyone else. I had to stifle my laughter. It’s not like we bothered anyone. No one seemed to be enjoying it. At one point I saw a man, throw his arms up wildly and shake his head as if he’d finally seen enough. It did prove to be a decent distraction for an hour and a half. 

•

After the movies were over, we piled back into my dad’s car and then went to the funeral home. We all put on our most normal faces and made our way in. It was a relatively painless procedure, as I can recall anyway. We got information about various options in preserving his memory and or having a memorial. Neither of which we would do. The man was nice. Josie was the subject of the meeting with her happy disposition that charms everyone. Her childlike innocence sparing her from ever realizing the gravity of the situation. Then we left, my sister carrying the box of ashes. We got in the car and made our way home. 

It was a beautiful sunny day and everything had been pleasant, except for the underlining glaze of sadness. Later we went to eat at a restaurant. As we waited for a table to open up, I sat outside on a bench with my niece. Feeling unguarded with her and away from other adults, I said, “I miss papa.” Looking around at the sunset and busy traffic on Bay Area Blvd, she heaved a tiny, thoughtful sigh and replied, “me too.”

•

A while later on the one month anniversary of my dad passing away, I wrote in a journal, reflecting on the event:

“I’m torn between remembering all those horrible last moments or trying to forget it all. It haunts me. I don’t know if I will ever be okay again. Maybe I can write about it another time. Maybe it’s important to remember. I don’t know how to make peace with the things I have seen and heard. I watched my dad starve to death. There was nothing I could do. I don’t understand why this happened.”