A LEAP OF FAITH

Twelfth Step

Twelfth Step
Neshanic Reformed Cemetery
Hillsborough, New Jersey, USA
September 26, 2002
11:30 a.m.
Gia

My father was getting buried on a Wednesday morning. His remains will be laid to rest on land far, far away from that of his birth, underneath ground that had remained as foreign to him now as it had when he first came.

Overnight clouds have rolled in, thick with moisture. The weather was overcast, the skies heavy above the tent that we stood under, alternating between shades of pewter and a sickly gray green. It contrasted with how everything else appeared around us, life practically seeping out of every corner.

Fall was in the air and everywhere I looked. The leaves had already begun changing their colors, shedding themselves off branches, already preparing for winter, drifting onto the ground.

My mother stood next to me, silently weeping. My sister stood on the opposite side of my mother's, Matt to her other side, her sobs a little more audible. I was doing neither.

We each held a small bouquet of Philippine jasmine in our hands, their small blossoms glaringly white against the black clothing we donned. Its rich, heady scent was in the autumn day air; it was something I had not smelled since I was thirteen years old. Since the day I left my native country.

In the olden days it had been used by young couples pledging their love to each other. On this day we hoped that it would guide my father home.

I was told upon arriving at the hospital that my father had a stroke. One he survived. But a few hours later he had another one. That, he did not. The doctor said something about uncontrolled blood pressure and diabetes, triglycerides and plaque, though by that time I had already begun shutting down.

I didn't need to know the technical aspects, didn't need any explanations, not when the state of my knowing or not knowing doesn't, wouldn't, and couldn't change the outcome.

I had fast forwarded myself into acceptance of the fact that he was gone.

After crying at the hospital for fear of the unknown, my mother's face scaring me more than anything else, my tears have finally dried. I haven't cried since. Not the day after, not the one after that. Finally knowing what was up seems to have dulled me out.

In the immediate aftermath of my father's death, my sister, my mother and I had spent hours in the hospital by my father's bedside, all holding separate vigils of our own. It was a ritual dictated by the Catholic faith, and my mother had stubbornly insisted on it. It seemed easier to agree than to argue.

The next few days were ensconced at the funeral home, at the mandatory wake, wherein people I hadn't seen in decades came and went. I don't even know how they knew so quickly, but I didn't ask any questions.

If someone were to ask me how I felt, I would not even know how to answer. I doubted that my response would be one that they would accept without judging me. Because the truth of the matter was, that somewhere between then and now, whatever I might have been feeling about my father's death had somehow turned into something else.

How will they understand that when I can't even understand it myself?

People deal with death in different ways. My mother buried herself in doing trivial tasks. My sister buried herself in everything else. And I, buried myself in anger.

I could feel it over me now, a blazingly hot blanket of crimson. I wasn't sure if I was angry at him or at myself. I wasn't sure whether I was merely choosing to be angry, finding that to be the more acceptable, more tolerable alternative. I wasn't sure of a lot of things, but it didn't matter.