Death...And Life Goes On

26 years ago this week my father was gunned down, shot to death in a random drive-by shooting on the cold streets of East Los Angeles. He was sitting at a bus stop completely unaware of his impending fate. He was the only person who didn’t run for cover fast enough when the shots rang out. His assassin was never found.

It would be cliché to say that something in me died when he was killed that day. In fact, I went to work that night. The shooting had taken place 2500 miles from the city I lived in and… what else was I going to do? He was gone. Forever. That was my new and blunt reality.

When I eventually made it out to Los Angeles for the wake and funeral services, I had been living in a debilitating psychic black hole for days. I was walking around with a deep fear of seeing his body. He had been such a massive man; 6‘4“tall, 250 pounds, deep, booming voice that could shake rafters.  His childhood friends gave him the nickname “horse”, because his frame was so gangly and powerful. I thought I would not be able to bear seeing him in a box, trapped and immobilized, for eternity. The thought of seeing him laid low in that state was so severe that I almost decided to leave the wake before anyone else arrived. But, my great aunt Bertha arrived before I could make that final decision. Aunt Bertha saw the fear in me and when I told her what my fears were, she told me, “I think you should see him. I will walk down with you, if you like.”  Reluctantly and fearfully, I agreed to take the longest 30-foot journey of my life. Certainly I was either going to faint upon seeing him, or I would fall down to the floor, writhing in unbearable agony. Either way all my senses were on high trauma alert as we slowly inched towards my father’s mobile tomb.

As we approached and the tears instinctively started welling in my eyes, I looked down and to my utter amazement and unhinged relief, he wasn’t there! He was not in his tomb! Yes, there was a dead body present that looked similar to my father’s living one, but my father’s spirit was nowhere to be found! The shell that he left behind was nothing but a deep witness to the fact that his soul had come for a time, inhabited a physical form, and eventually, even if suddenly, let it go!

I have never been afraid of death since; and as if to underscore this abrupt awakened understanding in me, my father has visited me, in dreams and in consultation with a psychic, on three different occasions since his transition. Each time, he let me know that he was OK; that his transition was in fact sudden, but that he was now doing well. He also told me how much he loved me and was looking out for me. I don’t have any confusion about his physical body not returning, but I am always and forever grateful for the poignant revelation that his soul never died.

Namaste,