Abstract
Six brittle months after burying my young son, I reach out my hands, Dad, and they're your hands reaching, ready to work, gripping the handles of your own casket, then letting go. "Lifelines crisscross the palms, connecting the generations," you said, "the way roads crisscross maps, connecting towns." And you placed them—your palms— next to mine, linking our lines. Richard, then I, then the other mourners drop shovelfuls of dirt onto the casket. We watch...
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Six brittle months after burying my young son, I reach out my hands, Dad, and they're your hands reaching, ready to work, gripping the handles of your own casket, then letting go. "Lifelines crisscross the palms, connecting the generations," you said, "the way roads crisscross maps, connecting towns." And you placed them—your palms— next to mine, linking our lines. Richard, then I, then the other mourners drop shovelfuls of dirt onto the casket. We watch the dirt take on different shapes, like a face growing old. Richard and I walk back to our chairs along the rocky path, trying to maintain our balance, as we did when told that you were dead. I sit stiffly in my stiff chair. Richard leans forward in his seat, grips the edge, as if it's the only solid object in the world. I want to say I'll be father to him: make corny jokes, walk with him to the synagogue, sing the prayers with him. But he's a brother, not a son. Instead, I glance at my palms, these maps showing roads that end so abruptly without the young palms that once completed them.
JAMA – American Medical Association
Published: May 7, 2003
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