Hello From the Other Side
After my dad died, I asked for a sign
A package arrived in mid-April. I hadn’t ordered anything.
Inside the padded envelope was olive green material. I unfolded it. It was an army jacket. A patch over a chest pocket read: McInerny.
The tears came.
The jacket belonged to my oldest brother who was killed in Vietnam decades earlier. But how did it get here?
A note fluttered out of the envelope. It was from a cousin. A friend of hers found the jacket in a Minneapolis, Minnesota vintage store and sent it to her in Phoenix, Arizona. She in turn mailed it to me in Portland, Oregon.
My brother’s jacket had traveled across time and space to land at my front door.
This felt like the synchronicity I’d been asking for.
My dad died last summer. He lived a kind, thoughtful, and long life. His death was not a surprise.
In the immediate aftermath of his death, cultural rites and ancient rituals offered we five remaining siblings and our mother the structure we needed. We had roles. Do this. Do that. Bury. Grieve. Be grateful.
We worked together to prep our childhood home — of the past sixty-seven years — for sale. Grandchildren and great-grandchildren provided…
