The room was filled with hushed whispers of the 3 dozen or so friends, family and co-workers who wandered about in the medium non-descript room where my father's body lay resting. I scanned the room from in the back, a conversation between my wife, Sarah, and one of my co-workers were barely heard by my ears. This was all a dream, I thought. My father, Dexter Morgan, couldn't be dead. But my eyes wandered to the coffin, forcing my brain to come to the conclusion that this was really happening. I knew it was coming. He was gaining quickly on 80 years old, and I, on my 50's. He made no excuses. His mind, right down to the end, was sharp as a tack. He never missed anything and he passed this trait, no skill, to me.
It was a game we would play when I was a kid. He would take me to a public place and we would watch people. Make up stories. When I was very young, the stories were fanciful and silly, which made my father smile widely. But as I got older, we truly started looking for ways to find out things about people just by how they appeared their body language. Countless hours watching, silently, looking for clues, looking for signs. It was a skill which I honed to a razor's edge and finally was able to outsmart good ol' dad. Although I think he might have just let me win a few times, a thought that always brought a smile to my mind. My father was always a caring and loving person. Little did I know this skill of observation would help me in my career, my life and my relationships? It was probably the greatest gift he ever gave to me.
As I stood there, no hearing the conversation, I scanned the room. I saw a lot of people I knew from my childhood. People who I had not seen since I graduated high school or college. I watched as they streamed in and out of the private viewing area. I saw the family portraits of my family with a much younger man who was my father. I walked away from my wife, telling her I would be right back. But ready I just wanted to get away. See the photos on display. Remember when….my family was whole. I looked at the photo my father and mother on their wedding day. I don't remember my mother. My father kept the truth from me for years until in a crazy teenage frenzy between my father and a 17-year old Astor; she screamed "He killed her! He killed out mother!" I look on shock, grief, pain, anger and finally, calmness passed over his face in a matter of seconds after Astor screamed, then fleeing out the door. I started to cry, not because I was upset at what she said, but they way Astor slammed the door and left. I never liked loud noises. My aunt Deb hadn't fond of loud noises either. She had died years before my father. But did she have a foul mouth on her, even in her older years. I never remembered her talking the same way when I was younger, but as I got older, her mouth got fouler. Dad always said she was not one to mince words, whether you be it friend or foe. Aunt Deb said she wanted to put that on her gravestone. Little did we know it would only be a few years later we could do just that.
In the midst of my memories, a sudden odd, outer worldly sensation came over me. It snapped me out of my reveille. As I turned around it was when I saw her. A petite, thin, older lady in a black dress, with hair swept back in a loose clip at the base of her neck. Her hair was pale, faded blonde and her face was hidden by large black sunglasses. She paused, with her back almost pressed against the doors, looking surprised, shocked(?) I thought perhaps she had wondered into the wrong memorial service. But her lips started to tremble. Behind the large sunglasses I couldn't see her eyes, but I could tell they were closed. She pressed her hand to her mouth for a moment. And seem to take a deep breath. She lowered her head and started to move along the wall around the rows of chairs line up in front of the coffin.
I didn't recognize her. My mind winding back through the years and the faces of my father's friends and family. I watched as she paused at the last row and the last chair in the back, farthest from coffin. Her hand gripped the back of the chair tightly. She gracefully seated herself in the chair. My curiosity about this woman peaked, I wandered towards her. Her head was bent, looking for something in her purse. As I walked closer, I watched as she removed her sunglasses. I caught a glimpse of her lightly lined pale cheek. In her younger years she was probably pretty, not beautiful. I could tell she had a little makeup on, since she withdrew a compact to check herself in the mirror within. Was she wiping tears? I moved down last aisle of chairs more determined to find out who this woman was.
As I approached her, her attention was drawn again to inside her purse. Her head was low, as if she didn't want to look up or be seen. Her movements were slow and deliberate. I wasn't trying to sneak up on her, but she was so focused, she did not hear my approach.
"Hello?" I asked quietly. She froze for a moment, and slowly looked up at me. I swear her gaze started at my feet and went all the way to my face. Her breath caught in slight shock, her eyes wide and glassy as she stared at my face.
Maybe she is confused, lost. Maybe she is in the wrong place, my thoughts wandered in and out of my mind as she searched my face.
"Dexter?" She asked curiously and incredibly. I smiled. Nope, not in the wrong place. I shook my head not slightly and sat down next to the woman, my arm draping along the back of the chair. I never took my eyes off her; and she did not stop looking at me. "No. My name is….."
