Tradition

A story of grief and wonder.

         "We're going to visit my father today," I tell Abe, "Birthday."


         "Yes, sir, of course," he says in a pleasantly posh accent, "You've marked it on your calendar."


         I go to the passenger side door of the limo and rub the length of the handle from left to right five times. I open and shut the door, then open it again and get in. I set a wrapped-up box next to me.


         "Comfortable, sir?" Abe asks.


         "Yes, I'm fine. Go ahead and drive. Same route as always."


         Flashback: My father walks down the hall briskly towards me, his gimlet eyes fixed on my wet ones.


         "You little--!"


         Blows. Hard.


         "Stop--acting--that way--at--parties!" he bellows.


         More blows. Then darkness.


         Flashforward.


         "Something troubling you, sir?" Abe asks me softly.


         "No," I say. It's quiet, but he hears it.


         "You can tell me, sir," he says, turning to the side.


         "Just my present to my father, Abe."


         A long pause.


         "Perhaps, sir," he says, "he'll appreciate what it represents."


         "One can only hope," I mumble.


         We arrive at the destination.


         I walk along gravestones, looking for my father's tombstone. It doesn't take long.


         VINCE WRIGHT, it reads, 2034-2118.


         I set the box in front of his gravestone, inside, a Zen garden.


         "Happy birthday, Dad," I say, staring downwards, "I'm sorry that I was a bit angry the last time. I was still upset...about what you did to me. But I know your apologies were heartfelt. Are heartfelt. And I know you love me. It was never easy loving you, but I realize that you've earned my love now. I love you."


         I sit for a very long hour. We leave.


         "Thanks, Abe."


         "I'm here to assist, sir," the robot says warmly, his circuitry lighting up in the purple twilight.