On the two hour trek to Resurrection Cemetery, I realized that I hadn’t been there since that Christmas ago when my sister had asked me to help her lay pine wreaths over our mother’s and father’s plots. While she was praying over them, I glanced across the street at a guy trying to get a giant Santa Claus blown up on his front lawn. I excused myself to go and help him despite my sister’s obvious scorn.

This time there was no Santa Claus and no sister. I walked up to my parents’ graves and paid my respects to my mother. For a shuddering moment, I thought my father, who died when I was 19, was going to look up at his now senior-aged son and shout, “Who the hell are you!” My hand trembled as I lifted the envelope from my jacket pocket. That morning I had written my father this letter.

Dear Dad. It’s taken me 40 years to have the courage to write these words. I can finally push away the anger toward you that I had for so long. I no longer blame you for not being the father I wanted you to be for me. Sickness poisoned your heart and you had no chance to give me your love. I promise you I will continue to be the man you were not privileged to be. I can still make you proud. Your loving son.

“Excuse me sir,” said a voice from behind me. I turned and saw a tall Black man wearing overalls and holding a rake. “This cemetery forbids the placement of man-made objects upon the graves.” I might have engaged in a dispute about his remark, but a soft glow from his green eyes sent a strange calm over me.

“In this case, however, you may leave your envelope upon this grave,” he said. “I’ve been the caretaker for this cemetery for a long time. I can tell you’re not one of our regulars.”

“You can probably tell a lot of time has passed since I’ve been here,” I said.

“This is a fine place to be if you’re talking about time passing. Joseph Charles is my name.” I reached out to shake his hand, but none was offered in return.

“People come here every day to talk to the dead,” he said. “Last week, Mr. Wilson made his customary anniversary visit to his wife, Louise. He brought his usual bottle of Champagne to honor the occasion and we shared a toast to her.

“Do you talk to the dead, Mr. Strack?” he asked as we stared at my father’s headstone.

“Well, I … I don’t get much opportunity.”

“I talk to the dead every day,” he said. “There’s Harold over there in row 22. He’s our oldest resident. Died in 1791. They say he was a friend of Benjamin Franklin.” The caretaker pointed in another direction. “Melanie Baker’s over there in row 44. She was raped and murdered 20 years ago. Her mom still comes here once a week. She had been so sad for a very a long time. We had a talk a month or so ago. I told her she ought a go on living the life she’s been given with the joy her daughter put inside her heart, kind of like Billy Conners did for his people. He’s over there in row 37. Died of cancer last Thursday. He was just eight years old. Well, Melanie’s mom came by the other day wearing a shirt with a picture of her daughter on the front and printed on the back were the words. ‘Live the life you’ve been given with joy in your heart.’”

“Excuse me Joseph, but why are you telling me all this?” The caretaker pretended not to hear me. “The dead can teach the living much about life,” he said. “A man showed up two days ago and I found him crying over Billy’s grave. He and his three sons lived next door to Billy and they visited the poor boy before he died. He said he felt something move into him whenever the child smiled at him. Now the man has stopped drinking and has sworn to be a better father to his sons.

“You know,” he said while raking some leaves off my father’s grave. “My ma died when I was a little kid, but I still talk to her every day. She helps me with my purpose like talking to you right now.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, what is your purpose with me?”

“You see. I’m what they call a light worker. I knew you were coming here today to make peace with your father and I know you came here for another reason.” He looked at me with that soft glow from his green eyes. “You need to follow the path lighted by the spirits.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“You’ll feel them when they come by you. They will show you the way.” He raised his chin from resting on top of the rake. “Time I be going now. Got more work to do. First, I got to stop by and welcome Ms. Francis over in row 64. She just come in this morning.”

I watched him walk away. At the end of the row, he stopped and turned around. “That man in front of you is still your daddy. Talk to him. He’s ready to give you his love now.” The caretaker waved goodbye. A gust of wind blew across the tops of the headstones and he seemed to disappear into the air.

I talked to my dad before I began to walk back to my car. An old headstone caught my eye and I stopped to read the engraving.

JOSEPH CHARLES – BORN 1826 – DIED 1903. LIVE THE LIFE YOU’VE BEEN GIVEN WITH JOY IN YOUR HEART.

Rich Strack can be reached at richiesadie11@gmail.com.