It has been more than eight years since my father died, still every now and then, I keep thinking about the last email, the last phone call, and the last time I saw him. I remember our last conversation, and a search of my mail brings up our last correspondence. However, I am still fuzzy on the details of our last in-person interaction. Perhaps I would have to ask my mother if she remembers his last trip to the States or look through the stamps in his passports for that information. Still, portions of one of his last visits remains vivid in my mind. It was in November 2007, and he had a meeting or conference in Virginia (or was it Maryland)?
After my father’s business had been completed, my sister and I met with him so that we could spend some together. It was a sunny, but chilly and windy morning, and my sister drove around the area as we tried to figure out how we would spend the day. One of the signs we saw was to Arlington Cemetery. Either my sister or I suggested we take a tour, and to my surprise, my father agreed. So, that is what we did. There were several sites we visited that day, but it was Arlington Cemetery that still leaves me with memories of my father and one of the last times I spent with him.
I am one of those people who enjoy visiting cemeteries (except on the occasions I have to attend a burial). Other than that, I love wandering around, reading information on tombstones and imagining the past lives of the people that lie beneath. Ghanaian cemeteries are surrounded by superstition, and usually, there is not enough space between the graves to move about with impunity. However, the cemeteries I have visited in the U.S. are well-laid out and have gravestones that date two or three centuries back. To me, cemeteries are places rich in history. I was more than happy to do a tour of Arlington Cemetery and was pleasantly surprised that my father also had an interest in that activity.
It was close to Veteran’s Day, and the stones were covered with small American flags. We also visited the area where JFK, his wife Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy, and Robert Kennedy are laid to rest. The guide left us there for a while, and we wandered around, reading the inscription on their graves. I have always been fascinated by the lives of JFK and RFK and found myself telling my father snippets of what I had learned about the brothers. I remember the words tripping over each other in my eagerness to share my knowledge. At one point, he asked me, “Why do you keep calling him Jack?” And I remember my surprise that my all-knowing father did not know that “Jack” is a nickname for “John.” We speculated about the lives of current and future presidents (it was just after the national elections) and which ones would be eligible to be buried in the prestigious Arlington Cemetery based on whether they had served in the armed forces! It seemed such a big deal to us that President Obama would not qualify to be buried there.
Juxtaposition that experience with the encumbrance of visiting a cemetery in Ghana! First, there are the spiritual scary stories associated with cemeteries. Then, there is the difficulty navigating one’s way amongst the tombstones because of the lack of space. A few years back during a home visit, I decided to visit all the graves of my family—my maternal grandfather and my paternal aunt at Osu Cemetery; my maternal grandmother, uncle and auntie at Awudome Cemetery. My visit to Awudome was depressing. Parts of the cemetery was not well-maintained; tombstones were surrounded with overgrown weeds, and some of the older tombstones were desecrated. I left feeling rather depressed.
Soon after my father died, one of the stories I heard was that during his visit to his late sister’s grave, he had been saddened by the overcrowding at the cemetery and the difficulty navigating to his sister’s resting place. More than one person confirmed that it had left a strong impression on him, so much so that it factored into the decision of where to lay him to rest. I suppose, in that respect, my father and I are alike; we are well aware that technically, it does not matter what happens after we are dead, and yet we cannot help but worry about our final resting place.
Another significant occurrence during that 2007 trip was the parting with my father. My sister and I took him to the airport and stayed with him until he had gone through security. I remember us standing and watching while he took off his jacket and shoes, and went through the screening process. It seemed odd, and somewhat insulting to see our beloved Papa go through that process. We stayed there, waiting to wave at him one last time before he disappeared from our sight. We waited and we waited… watching him walk away, willing him to take a look at us. “Turn around! Look back!” we muttered intermittently. We waited to no avail. He did not turn and wave to us one last time.
“He didn’t look back!” One of us said. My throat was heavy and painful with tears, and when my sister spoke, she also sounded unsteady. Our traverse back to the parking lot was silent, except for our stifled sobs. I realized we were struck by the same sense of grief. It was a big deal to us that we did not get that last look and wave from our father.
It has been over eight years since my father died, and I am still trying to figure out the last time I saw him in person. I may have met him on at least one other occasion after that visit to Arlington Cemetery, but in my mind, it seems like that visit had been a farewell.
Kezia Dzifa Awadzi
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