My dad died suddenly of a heart attack (a broken heart?) when I was 31, leaving me with the greatest physical grief I have ever known until the present. My emotional grief did not really take hold until I became a Marriage and Family Therapist in 1985 and more intensely as a Primal Therapist in the early 1990s. The dam I had built was broken down during my fourth marriage to Gregory. I did not just cry buckets; I cried waterfalls like those of Niagara and Victoria.

Before this, I had contacted a reunion therapist so I could see my dad again, as I rarely dreamt of him. That person cancelled and even reading Reunions by Raymond Moody did not suffice. My past pattern to visit’s dad grave on his birthday May 4^th and death day October 6^th, and on Memorial Day EVOLved to monthly gravesite visits to say “I love you” out loud, which had never happened face-to-face, although it was frequently written in cards and letters.

I was flabbergasted on October 21^st, 2020. I had visited dad’s grave a third time this month because I wanted a better photo of (him) framed with colored leaves, as dad gave me his great love of nature besides loving me, his non-biological daughter. I had parked my moped on the roadside, in front of the cemetery, one-half mile from my home. When I parked in my driveway, a man yells to me, “Are you okay? You looked upset coming out of the cemetery.” I was dumbfounded. How could he tell, as I still had my helmet on? “I’ve seen your moped parked there before,” says this stranger with a Covid-mask on.

I learn his name is Adam, lives nearby, and his wife who is driving their car is Kelly. We wave at one another. Adam is a young man; I am stunned to be offered a hug. We do. The coronavirus has not prevented the ghost of my dad hugging me.