My Dad and the Tree

My father died suddenly when I was 21 — a heart attack, which he must’ve known on some level was going to happen, because in the two weeks before he died, he called everyone — friends, relatives, colleagues, people he hadn’t spoken to in years, people he loved, people he could’ve done without. I, however, was taken by surprise, and went from hearing he’d died to riding in a van with my step-mother, my Dad’s friend, and a cemetery rep to look for his burial spot. This was at a cemetery in Paramus, NJ, and although Paramus was not where I’d imagined my father would be buried (nor, I believe, had he), I was too shocked to say anything. I’d wanted him to be near the water, which he loved. Dad was once a lifeguard in the Rockaways — a Bronx boy, he found it easier to sleep on the beach than commute the 50-plus subway stops. And at 19, spending nights under the boardwalk was no big deal.

The cemetery we drove through had markers, not headstones. I’d never seen a cemetery without headstones, and didn’t like it — I felt like it was fighting against its nature, as if it wanted to cloak itself as a park. But when we were driven to a spot near an apple tree, I felt a sense of relief — it was sweet, peaceful, and with my Dad buried under a tree in a cemetery without headstones, I knew I could find him.

Then we were driven to another spot — a blank field — nothing poetic, nothing special — but…