y dad died seven weeks later, and I was granted an emergency leave to attend the funeral.

The flight back to the States was a blur. All I could do was stare out the window at the formless gray of the ocean thousands of feet below me, wishing I could have been with him in his final moments. I hadn't shaved or showered or even changed my clothes

since I'd heard the news, as if going about my daily life meant that I fully accepted the idea that he was gone.

In the terminal and on the ride back to my house, I found myself growing angry at the everyday scenes of life around me. 1 saw people driving or walking or heading in and out of stores, acting normal, but for me nothing seemed normal at all.

It was only when I got back to the house that I remembered I'd turned off the utilities almost two months earlier. Without lights, the house seemed strangely isolated on the street, as if it didn't quite belong. Like my dad, I thought. Or me, I realized. Somehow that thought made it possible to approach the door.

Wedged in the door frame of our house, I found the business card of a lawyer named William Benjamin; on the back, he claimed to represent my dad. With phone service disconnected, I called from the neighbor's house and was surprised when he showed up at the house early the following morning, briefcase in hand.

I led him inside the dim house, and he took a seat on the couch. His suit must have cost more than 1 earned in two months. After introducing himself and apologizing for my loss, he leaned forward. “I'm here because I liked your dad,” he said. "He was one of my first clients, so there's no charge for this, by the way. He came to me right after you were born to make up a will, and every year,

on the same day, I'd get a certified letter in the mail from him

that listed all the coins he'd purchased. I explained to him about estate taxes, so he's been gifting them to you ever since you were a kid."

I was too shocked to speak.

"Anyway, six weeks ago he wrote me a letter informing me that

you finally had the coins in your possession, and he wanted to make sure everything else was in order, so I updated his will one last time. When he told me where he was living, I figured he wasn't doing well, so I called him. He didn't say much, but he did give me permission to talk to the director. The director promised that he'd let me know when or if your dad passed away so I could meet you. So here I am."

He started rifling through his briefcase. "I know you're dealing

with the funeral arrangements, and it's a bad time. But your dad told me you might not be here for very long and that I should handle his affairs. Those were his words, by the way, not mine. Okay, here it is.“ He handed over an envelope, heavy with papers. ”His will, a list of every coin in the collection, including quality and the date of purchase, and all the arrangements for the funeral—which is prepaid, by the way. I promised him that I'd see the estate all the way

through probate, too, but that won't be a problem, since the estate

is small and you're his only child. And if you want, I can find someone to haul away anything you don't want to keep and make arrangements to sell the house, too. Your dad said you might not have

time for that, either.“ He closed his briefcase. ”As I said, I liked your dad. Usually you have to convince people of the importance of this stuff, but not your dad. He was one methodical man."

“Yeah.” I nodded. “He was.”

As the lawyer said, everything had been taken care of. My dad had chosen the type of graveside service he wanted, he'd had his clothing dropped off, and he'd even picked his own coffin. Knowing

him, I guess I should have expected it, but it only reinforced my belief that I never really understood him.

His funeral, on a warm, rainy August day, was only sparsely attended. Two former co-workers, the director of the extended care

facility, the lawyer, and the neighbor who'd helped take care of him were the only ones beside me at the graveside service. It broke my heart—absolutely broke it into a million pieces—that in all the

world, only these people had seen the worthiness of my dad. After the pastor finished the prayers, he whispered to me to see if I wanted to add anything. By then my throat was tight as a drum, and it took everything I had to simply shake my head and decline.

Back at home, I sat tentatively on the edge of my dad's bed. By then the rain had stopped, and gray sunlight slanted through the window. The house had a musty, almost moldy odor, but I could still smell the scent of my dad on his pillow. Beside me was the envelope the lawyer had brought me. I poured out the contents. The will was on top, as were some other documents. Beneath it, however, was the framed photograph that my dad had removed from his desk so long ago, the only existing photograph of the two of us.

I brought it to my face and stared at it until tears filled my eyes.

Later that afternoon, Lucy, my long-ago ex, arrived. When she first stood at my doorstep, I didn't know what to say. Gone was the suntanned girl from my wild years; in her place was a woman dressed in a dark, expensive pantsuit and a silk blouse.

“I'm sorry, John,” she whispered, coming toward me. We hugged, holding each other close, and the sensation of her body against mine was like a glass of cool water on a hot summer day. She wore the lightest trace of perfume, one I couldn't place, but it made me think of Paris, even though I'd never been there.

“I just read the obituary,” she said after pulling back. “I'm sorry I couldn't make it to the funeral.”

“It's okay,” I said. I motioned to the couch. “You want to come in?”

She sat beside me, and when I noticed she wasn't wearing her wedding ring, she subconsciously moved her hand.

“It didn't work out,” she said. “I got divorced last year.” “I'm sorry.”

“I am, too,” she said, reaching for my hand. “You doing okay?” “Yeah,” I lied. “I'm okay.”

We talked for a while about old times; she was skeptical of my

claim that her final phone call had led me to join the army. I told

her that it was exactly what I needed at the time. She spoke about her career—she helped design and set up retail spaces in department stores—and asked what Iraq was like. I told her about the

sand. She laughed and then asked no more about it. In time, our conversation slowed to a trickle as we realized how much we both had changed. Maybe it was because we'd been close once, or

maybe it was because she was a woman, but I could feel her scrutinizing me and already knew what she would ask next.

“You're in love, aren't you,” she whispered.

I folded my hands in my lap and faced the window. Outside, the sky was again dark and cloudy, portending even more rain. “Yes,” I admitted.

“What's her name?” “Savannah,” I said. “Is she here?”

I hesitated. “No.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

No, I wanted to say. I don't want to talk about it. I'd learned in the army that stories like ours were both boring and predictable, and though everyone asked, no one really wanted to hear them. But I told her the story from beginning to end, in more detail

than I should have, and more than once, she reached for my hand. I hadn't realized how hard it had been to keep it inside, and by the time I trailed off, I think she knew I needed to be alone. She kissed me on the cheek as she left, and when she was gone, I paced the

house for hours. I drifted from room to room, thinking of my dad and thinking of Savannah, feeling like a foreigner, and gradually coming to the realization that there was somewhere else I had to go.