The clock says it is 6:47, around the time I called my dad every day for more than six years. He had a fear of dying in his sleep with no one finding him for days. The calls, lasting only seconds reassured him this would never happen.
I want to call and once again set his mind at ease. I want to tell him all the people that are here to pay tribute and bring him to his final resting place. All his grandchildren are here. His great grandchildren are here. We are telling stories and looking at pictures of him and mom and wonder what their first conversation will be about once they are reunited. Will she ask about us or tell him he should have shaved and gotten a haircut? For once she won't complain about the ragged clothes he always chose to wear (the new ones lay in their packages and stay on their hangers with the tags on) as he is in a shroud, meeting his maker and her the way holy men do. I know they will hug and kiss and probably be dancing around, glad to be together again.
I want to call but I don't. He is not there to answer.