It was eleven years ago, to be exact,

Easter Sunday, 2000.

We gathered at the synagogue

near my father’s home in Westchester County

to say our final good-byes to a beloved man.

It was a beautiful spring day as I recall, and I was

grateful to be surrounded by

so many friends who had come to pay their respects.

It spoke to who he was in life, that he should be

so honored in death.

I won’t take this time to write much more

than a quick recollection of that day, so that if you ever

see me on an Easter Sunday, and I look far away, as if I’m

having trouble being in the moment, you might be able to

forgive me and understand why.

Just as I could not be my usual “master of ceremonies” self

on that day, I am having trouble finding the correct turn of

phrase to describe what I felt. It was visceral, a howling pain that made me

understand what “keeners” are and why their role is necessary in Irish funerals. Sometimes words are not what’s needed. Sometimes, as Allen Ginsburg

may have been suggesting, what we need is to howl.

Good night, Dad. I miss you. Your loss was a huge one for me,

and there’s still a chip on my heart where it broke the day you

told me of the doctor’s diagnosis. I’m heartbroken that we’ve

not been able to share so many momentous occurrences in my

life – my marriage, the birth of my two sons. I’m heartbroken you’re

only an idea to them, not a living, breathing, loving grandfather. You

would have been a great one to them, just as you were to

Levi, Jules, Nina and William. Good night.

I love you, Dad.