I’m sure my father cried well before the time I saw him. There had been sadness and loss in our home in the days after my Grandpa—his own father—died. Three years before that, a pall of grief and sorrow settled upon us and never quite went away after my mother came home from Mercy Hospital with empty arms—arms that should have held her infant daughter, their third child. When I think upon it now, I’m sure he was crying during the times that he could not be found. Dad never went far, but I’m sure he hid somewhere when the emotions that embarrassed and confounded him threatened to spill over.

I remember the first time I saw my father cry. It scared me to see him that way, like maybe life wasn’t as secure and predictable as he had always made it seem. After the day of seeing him cry, I looked at my dad with vigilant eyes. He was my weather vane, my barometer. I began taking notice of how things affected him. I felt my happiest when he looked happy.
It was a Friday afternoon in late November, 1963. An unspeakable act had been committed: our thirty-fifth president was shot and killed by an assassin as he rode in an open convertible through the streets of Dallas, Texas. Coverage of this national tragedy dominated the airwaves throughout the weekend. It had never been our custom to leave the television on during the day, but the enormity of the tragedy required an exception. A relentless, gray-blue beacon of solemn sorrow emanated throughout our home, reminding us of our nation’s collective grief. At times one or another of us would sit and watch for a while. Most of the time we silently tiptoed past it in much the same way as we tiptoed upon arriving at church after mass had already begun. Our house was errily quiet.
When I realized that I hadn’t seen my father for several hours, I went looking for him. Our car was in the driveway, which meant he was home, but he wasn’t outside or in the garage. That left the basement.
Dad had high hopes for the basement after he had refinished it. He regarded it as a play room for his children and a spacious place for family gatherings. He paneled it in a pale, golden wood tone, put down a ken-tile floor, and built a well-stocked bar overlooking a fish tank full of live-bearing guppies with neon-colored tails. The main room was decorated in a nautical theme, and a portable, black and white TV rounded out the furnishings. “Why don’t you play in the basement?” my mother would ask, but I never did unless there were lots of cousins down there with me at holiday time. No matter what Dad had done to it, it was still a basement, and no matter how much I tried to tell myself that there was nothing down there that could hurt me, it was still a dark and scary place.
I opened the basement door and peered down the stairs. A blue, flickering light lit my way as I crept down each stair. When I reached the bottom step, my eyes followed the glow of the television to the place where my dad sat. He was bent forward, his elbows resting on his knees. He was weeping silently, holding his head in his hands.
John Kennedy and Dad were about the same age. Both of them served in the South Pacific during the war, came home, married, had children, and made a life for themselves. Dad had voted for JFK, who was a Roman Catholic and a Democrat. The president’s lovely young wife captivated us with her beauty and grace. His children amused us by playing under the president’s desk in the Oval Office. There was youth and vitality in the White House again. “It is Camelot,” people said.
As our young president lay in State in the Capitol Rotunda, as his black-veiled widow knelt beside his casket, as his three-year-old son saluted him, Dad wept for all that had been lost.
I do not know whether my father sensed that I was there with him for those brief moments. I did not call out to him, and he did not look up. I crept back up the steps, being careful to avoid the creaky places that I knew by heart. We never spoke of it, and it wasn’t until many years later that I ever told anyone about my father’s secret tears.
In his later years my dad and I cried together–mostly after bourbon manhattans and mostly over regrets. After years of holding them at bay, the things he had done during the war years demanded a voice. He told his stories and asked me if I thought it was possible that God might punish his grandchildren or his great-grandchildren for the sins he had committed. Tears came freely and emptied themselves down our cheeks as he spoke of atrocities and the possibility of forgiveness.
As my mind reached back through the decades to that first time I had seen him cry alone in the darkness of our basement, I wondered if he sensed how far he had come. In the twilight of his years, my father was finally ready to share his tears in the full light of day.