Squeezed between the ultra-liberal politics and world-renowned academics driven Berkeley and the rough-and-tumble blue-collar industrial Oakland in the East Bay is the city of Emeryville, a small enclave of middle-upper class residential high-rises and yuppie upscale restaurants. Unabashedly staring at the city of San Francisco in its full glory from a sea-level ventage point, Martha and I have long ago found the shoreline of Emeryville a hidden gem for a reflective evening stroll after a subdued dinner for two. Driving alone from Ben's firm in San Francisco downtown over the worn and colorless Bay bridge, overlooking the infamous island prison Alcatraz, trespassing the historic Treasure Island on the way, places filled with long dormant memories flash by on my side like soulless black birds flying mindlessly to pre-destined, unescapable ends. Today's unsually strong melancholy has prompted me to our place of soul asylum, hoping it will rekindle a moment of serenity and peace. Times like this I admit guiltily that I miss my Martha very much.The sun is setting as I park my car by the famed Chinese restaurant that has fortuitously found a home on rocky shores of west Emeryville. As I step out of the car, a cold wind welcomes me to the beaten narrow path by the shore lying and waiting in front of me, one that Martha and I have set foot together hand-in-hand hundreds of times. Like a passer-by searching for a lost gold coin he carelessly dropped, I pace the path cautiously, looking half-heartedly everywhere for something dear I cannot be sure. The sound of my shoes crunching meekly the sand below synchronizes with the perpetual and ceaseless waves; the retiring sun somehow inexplicably casts me two shadows -- one full-bodied and distinct, another elongated and faded. Suddenly, among the fast diminishing rays of a setting sun, images of our youthful past -- snuggling closely for warmth on the stone bench on the right, laughing to tears over a silly pun by the water fountain on the left, conversing giddly in excitement on the pending birth of our child -- appear sporatically like ghosts in front of my eyes. My walk has become a recounting of our short but cherished happenings in rapid and uncontrollable sequences. I watch these soundless wonderful illusions with a tender and broken heart, in awe and in infinite affection. Then my flashback comes to a poignant crescendo. Martha died in a car accident on her daily walk home from buying groceries for our evening supper. A drunk driver took her life and his own in a matter of seconds. If I had only taken Ben and her out for dinner that evening; if we had visited Mable; if I had only returned home early, caressed her, held her, kissed her... I once again torment myself with accusing questions I have tormented myself over and again the past nine years. However calmly and logically one can reason away guilt, I simply could not find the strength to speak to Ben about his mother's death because deep inside, I ultimately have succumbed to the weight of the consequence of my inability to protect my beloved wife. Martha is gone, and daily I pay for the sin from which I can never recover. I stop and stare blankly upwards as the darkening sky starts to fill itself with twinkling stars; the air is cool, crisp and light to the exposed skin. I long to be closer to her; I am ready to go whereever she is now.
I startle when my phone suddenly rings. I hurrily fumble the seldomly used phone out of my pocket and hear a familiar voice, "Dad, are you okay? I went to the cafe and they said you have long left." Ben has caught up to me. "Sorry, Ben ... just thinking about things today ... just thinking, I mean," I search for words clumsily as I struggle to regain my senses. A long silence ensues. How can I tell my son after all these years, after he has grown and matured into a man -- a well-educated, industrious professional in a modern world not my own, that as a father I have long ago failed him miserably, that I am sorry for not protecting his mother and save him from his deep sorrow?
Perhaps God was listening sympathetically from the stars; maybe Martha has whispered softly in the cold breeze; somehow the awkwardness has transmitted my pathos over the air. Ben finally speaks, "It's mom's birthday next Thursday, right? Why don't you come over for dinner? We can celebrate her life then ... you know, just talk about her." I stand motionless staring at the disappearing scarlet horizon; by grace, the black, heavy anvil I have endured for years is gently being lifted away from my aching back. It seems eternity has passed before I can utter a response, "I would like that, Ben ... thank you. See you next Thursday." I hang up the phone in darkness; the night stars barely illuminate my surrounding enough that I can discern my wrinkled hands clinching tightly to the phone. The sun has retired from another day of honest work and receives its rest for the following day. Perhaps after years of mourning, we can finally be a family of three again.
