The day my father died, a flock of red cardinals gathered in a tree outside my bedroom window. They chirped and shifted like fire. Mr. Charlie, Daddy’s best friend, called with the news, and I listened with my eyes closed, trying not to tremble. He extended condolences, and I thanked him graciously. The birds continued their performance, tweeting and leaping with excitement.

When he hung up, I clutched the receiver to my chest as if it were Daddy’s heart. I hadn’t planned to cry, hadn’t imagined I would crumble on this day. My father never meant much to me. We weren’t close. We didn’t speak often. I’d call him on his birthday if I remembered, but if I didn’t, it didn’t matter. We had built mutually exclusive lives that didn’t allow—or invite—intimacy. Yet, much to my surprise, when I hung up the phone, I buried my face in a pillow and wept.

At the funeral home, I paused before viewing him, not wanting the image to linger in my mind, but then I exhaled and stared at Dad’s still, ashy face. He lay in a dark brown suit I’d never seen, white shirt, and tie of the exact same muddy color. His fingernails were clean and clipped—something else I’d never seen—and his salt-and-pepper beard lay cropped and nicely shaped beneath high cheekbones. I thought he looked nice. Even the frown lines in his forehead were gone. It was his body, but not his spirit. There was no intensity, no urgency of expression, nothing that made me self-conscious. He was thinner than I remembered, but not puny. I was glad about that.

I touched Dad’s arm and mumbled, “Travel easy, ole man.”

Then I exited and collapsed. We’d never been friends. But he was my father.