A Sign

I think my Dad loved me. He said it once when I was thirty-two years old, shortly after my first divorce. My mother had come to take care of the kids because all I could do was weep. One evening after dinner I told her Dad never said he loved me.

Later that night she handed me the phone: "Your father wants to speak to you."

"Hello, Dad."

"I love you," he growled. We were both embarrassed.

I wasn't surprised, then, at his funeral — having prayed for a sign from him — to see among the all-white casket sprays of glads, carnations, daisies and the crosses of red roses bordered with lemon leaf, one exotic anthurium thrusting a yellow stamen semi-erect from its red, heart-shaped flower.

I was my father.

It was my father grumbling, "Fuck this!"