Tribute

Hundreds gathered at the funeral home today to honor my father.  We personalized the room with his watercolors and hats, and jettisoned the obligatory elegiac music for a jazz compilation.  I had just had one of the most profound experiences of my life -- witnessing my father's last days and most importantly his last breath -- and then like whiplash I was thrust into a this-is-your-life social situation.  Familiar faces from the suburban NJ town I grew up in were intermingled with people I had never met before, but who knew details about my life.  My father was alive in the stories they told, and the ice cream wrapper my brother found in the jacket he borrowed from father's closet.  Many of the guests also revealed they were proud owners of my father's art; evidence of his generosity.  In between rounds of speed-dating like conversations, I acknowledged I was at my father's wake.  Oh well, I thought, a phrase he repeated often the last few weeks.  I came to love his "oh wells", a perfect summation of  his situation.  He was mildly disappointed he was at the end, but he wasn't despondent or morbid.  He would acknowledge the truth and then move on to comment on a recent dream,  the trees outside his window, or the color of a nurses' scrubs.  Oh well, Dad.  I already miss you.