Dad's Wake

            Shortly after my dad’s death, in response to one grandson’s Facebook post, a second grandson suggested wearing Guayabera shirts to dad’s wake. Dad was famous for his Caribbean four-pocketed shirts. He loved the convenience of having extra pockets and the comfort of the roomy fit and open collar. At first he purchased the traditional style: pastel blue or yellow or white shirts with tiny pleats down the front. I once made him a shirt with a bright tropical print and over the years he ordered many colorful, custom-made shirts from a seamstress he met at a street fair in Frederiksted, St. Croix, U.S. Virgin Islands, where Mom owned two condos. (She bought the first while Dad was scuba diving one morning.)

My brother, Carl, raided Dad’s closet and brought a stack of Guayabera shirts to the dinner at J.J. Bitting Brewing Company. I wore one of Mom’s summery dresses, despite temperatures in the 30s. My sister, Maggie, wore a skirt that matched her husband John’s Guayabera shirt: both were gifts I made several years ago. David discovered his Hawai’ian shirts in the garage; he thought they might be at Fort Hood in Texas.

            Even Dad got into the act, thanks to Carl. He looked relaxed and dashing in his long sleeved four-pocketed shirt. When the priest arrived to say a prayer and a few words, he was a good sport and donned a colorful shirt well. (Don’t tell the bishop of the diocese!)

            Dad looked just like Dad. I kept waiting for his chest to rise. I never notice normal breathing, but its absence was startling and disconcerting. From his face you would think he was just taking a nap. His hands didn’t look quite right: slightly dehydrated and weak, but his salt-and-pepper beard was perfectly trimmed.

            At the funeral Mass on Tuesday, December 9^th, we again dressed tropical, brightening up St. Mary’s Church. The cold, wintry rain menaced our intrepid band and at St. Mary’s Cemetery a sudden gust of wind lifted a pole, threatening to drop the tent on us. A muddy backhoe rested next to the open grave and the dislodged headstone; rust-colored mud splatters undid Dad’s careful November cleaning. A Navy bugler played a hauntingly beautiful “Taps”; a Navy honor guard carefully folded the wet flag and presented it to my sister in gratitude for my dad’s service during World War II.

            Then we went to The Barge, a short block down the hill from Dad’s house. The owner, Alex, had set up long tables in the barroom and we ate a few feet from the barstool where he’d sip his beer and catch up on the local gossip.

            We miss you, Dad!