Moving My Dad
by John Aquino on 01/29/18My Dad, Sylvester J. Aquino, was 50 when I was born and died 50 years ago. He was a Georgetown Law graduate and practiced as an attorney in Washington, D.C. for 30 years until he died. He worked with the Italian-American community in the city. He was a good and caring man.
His being 50 years older than me had its consequences. When I am given sample secret answers for access to my bank accounts and credit cards online, one is always, "What is favorite song from the 1990s?" I don't have a favorite song from the 1990s. I do have favorite songs from the 1920s and 1930s and 1940s and other songs my Dad taught me.
When he died, our family buried him at the Catholic cemetery in Northeast Washington. But the family has moved away from that area, and when my mother died this year we decided to bury her in the cemetery in Silver Spring and to move my father there.
It was a long and complicated process, involving visits to D.C. government offices for permits and coordinating with two cemeteries and a funeral home. But we finally moved him a few weeks ago. It was a small service. Other family members were working, so there were only three of us, my wife, my brother and me, plus a deacon and a representative of the funeral home. Each of us said a few words.
I said that my Dad was a man who loved his family, his country, his Italian heritage and his Catholic faith. He spent his life helping other people. He didn't ask much back, except for one thing. He made his children promise never to name any of our children "Sylvester." And none of us has.
My mother was an English teacher and guidance counselor for the D.C. public schools. She was the one who encouraged us to read poetry.. But I remember one poem my Dad recited. I was going through some teenage angst, and in response, he recited Rudyard Kipling's "If," which begins,
"If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you.
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
And make allowance for their doubting too."
It ends,
"If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son."
That poem and especially the "my son" have spoken to me over the years and from heaven.
Copyright 2018 by John T. Aquino
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