The Weight of "If"

A Letter to My Father

I must have been about four when Grandma Lupe died. What was she? 103? 130? To the four year old mind those numbers are interchangeable. What I remember is that she was old, tiny, in a wheelchair, and her hands were soft and blue. Her skin was loose and cool to the touch.

By the time I was five my best friend in the world died. I didn’t know BeeBee was Jewish when we were playing on Augusta. It wasn’t til he died and I saw him with that funny hat in his casket. I thought I was Jewish, too. He was my best friend so, obviously we were the same. I wanted a hat to match his. I don’t remember when I learned it was actually called a yarmulke. He looked like a beautiful porcelain doll. I was too afraid to touch him because I was convinced I would break him.

And, of course, we shared a brick wall with a cemetery in those days.

Death was so much with us.

So were ghosts.

I had an asthma attack and you rushed me to the hospital. Once the doctors took care of me and sent us on our way I was surpr…