He imagines what it might feel like - the act of forgiveness. Adages float through his mind: Time heals all wounds; Love heals all wounds; To err is human, to forgive, divine. That last is his favorite. It speaks to him. He feels it. He hasn't the heart to forgive. He's still too raw for that. Still too aware of the pain of a childhood betrayed at the hands of his own father.

"Did you hear? I'm sure it's just rumors, but tiyE Amarech said to gash Siyoum that he was going to do it!"

"ayaregewim!"

"qoy'sti, we'll see, aidel?"

The tie he slips on feels like a noose around his neck. His handsome face is curiously expressionless in the mirror. He has his father's eyes. He runs his hand down the smooth silk of the black tie against the starched whiteness of his shirt, adjusts his belt and ignores the insistent flutter of nervousness in his stomach. He doesn't recognize the emotion. It goes against the grain to try to divine his emotions right now. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he is wondering why he's even bothering with the charade. To please whom? To appease whom? He doesn't give a fuck what anybody thinks. He may have…a lifetime ago. But not anymore. He was through pretending to care…even when he did.

He checks the time, readjusts the cuff of his shirt then smoothly shrugs into the dove gray jacket and feels as though he's pulling on invisible armor. His wife and kids are ready to go. He remembers the feel of his wife's soft palm as she cupped his tense jaw and gazed encouragingly into his eyes. He had her support. He had his kids. He needed nothing more. He had turned into the man his father had never aspired to become.

"I mean, don't they realize that their kids eventually grow up…become adults?"

"isu'ko n'w yemigermeN."

He made the short drive in absolute silence, letting the innocent chatter of his children seep into his scarred bones. His wife let her hand stray to his on the gear shift now and again, letting him know without words that she was right there with him. Thank God for women! This woman! He captures her hand suddenly, brings it to his lips and kisses the back without taking his eyes off the road. The children giggle. She smiles, squeezes his hand back. There is strength there - from her to him.

As they approach the church, his mind flashes back two years when his sister had stood before him, beautiful in her wedding gown, her cheeks flushed from nerves…and excitement. They had waited for their father for only half an hour, then, when he didn't show up, he had stepped up as naturally as he'd always done. There really was no longer any surprise there. No shock. Only a little pain.

"wiy, Gin min Aynet sew n'w!?"

"weynE, isua sitamirrrrr…"

"wendimwa n'w indE? abatiyew yetale?"

abatiyew yetale? Funny how long it took people to notice the obvious. Funny.

[But no one was there to witness that time when his father had come home, very late, after having spent Thanksgiving with his girlfriend and her family. His sister had prepared the early dinner, slaved all day long over perfecting the turkey, the stuffing - trying her best to mimic the tradition of this new culture. She was only fourteen. Still, this hadn't stopped his father from throwing the gravy spoon at her back, complaining that it was too small to serve the stuffing. Didn't she know better!?? His sister had held her tears in check, silent all through their thankless meal. That was the last time she'd cooked Thanksgiving dinner for their father.]

He remembers now breaching the gauntlet of eyes that bored into him and blamed him for his father's transgression. People who hadn't seen him since he was a boy now saw only a man who had pushed his father out of the picture to claim the glory for himself. He had looked back at them with his father's eyes and dared them to question him. No one had. They had preferred to come to their own conclusions. Safer that way. More amusing.

In that moment, with is sister's hand in the crook of his arm, he had finally succeeded in shrugging off the ghost of the father who had chosen to absent himself from his children's lives in so many different ways.

Now it was time for a final farewell and he wondered what made him care enough to do the right thing.

He stepped out of the four-door wagon and opened the back door for his daughter while his wife did the same for his son on the other side. He'd never seen his children wearing anything but cheerful colors. They didn't look like his little cherubs in their somber blacks. The minute they returned home, he was going to change their clothes himself.

The funeral procession had already arrived. People were gathered around the freshly dug grave. Some were wailing plaintively. The casket sat on the crossbars, ready to be lowered into oblivion, burying his father, and his demons along with him. He watched as the Patriarch said the Selot and uttered a blessing. The women began to wail louder, sounding wrenchingly wretched. He stood uniquely dry-eyed, each hand clasping his children's. His wife bent her head and shed tears, too. He didn't even bother to try to pretend.

Then, he stood in the receiving line and let teary-eyed people hug him for their comfort…and tried not to feel the sting of their salty tears on his face. He kept turning around, eyeing his family wagon as though it were his getaway car. Finally, it was over. The crowd of mourners began to disperse. The tight band of tension around his heart began to ease. Soon (not soon enough!) he'll be home. He'll take a shower. Change back into normal clothes. Take his children to the park. Be the father he never had.

"inE'ko…lemin meTa tadia?"

"wey yesew neger, dinich yeqebern meselew indE?"

As they walked back to their car, a small family of four, his son tugged at his hand. He looked down into his father's eyes and smiled.

Daddy, the boy said, is grandpa in heaven now?

He looked to his wife and she distracted the boy by swinging him up into her arms

Mommy, was grandpa your daddy? The boy asked.

No, sweetie, his mother said and kissed his cheek.

He turned to his father and asked: Was grandpa your daddy?

No, son, his father said, speaking the only truth of the day. My daddy died a long time ago. That was my father.

The boy giggled, but there was a trace of uncertainty in his eyes. Are you my daddy? He asked as his father fastened his seatbelt for him.

Oh, yes, the father said and pressed his trembling lips to his son's forehead.