Oranges and a Word from Beyond

 

We'd joke my Dad's first words when he was born in Nova Scotia were, "When are we moving to Florida?" He had to wait 62 years.

He was in his glory and was quick to share it. Before Christmas each year, I would receive a huge box of oranges with a note. "Love, Jimmy and Norma." I'd always called my father and my beloved stepmom by their names.

Each orange was the size of a grapefruit and tasted more orange than any orange I ever bought in Boston.

At 69 my Dad died, a day after his birthday. He had a wonderful day, playing the best game of golf ever and had a party, something rare for a Christmas baby.

I missed him terribly. Despite my being in Boston and he was in Florida, we had talked regularly. I would visit to escape one too many blizzards. He and Norma spent summers on the 38-foot boat he built and docked in Scituate. So many times I would think, "I need to tell Jimmy . . ." only to remember there were no phones in the afterlife.

Shortly after Thanksgiving the year he died I was at work for Digital Credit Union. We were crammed into a small space within Digital as we waited for our office building to be finished.

Returning from a meeting, I found a large crate on my desk. I opened it. It was filled with grapefruit-sized oranges and a card, "Love, Jimmy and Norma."

Calling Norma, I told her I'd received a gift from BOTH her and Jimmy. 

"Oh no," she said. "They must have used last year's card instead of the new one." 

I could imagine his ghost at the orange shipment place, replacing the new card for the old. "Don't be sorry. I really felt it was a gift from him." 

I meant it. It was the only Christmas gift I ever got from the beyond. I just wished I could have thanked him face to face.

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