North South East West
WHEN OUR FATHER DIED, we didn’t know what to do with his body. Conversations with your estranged dad never include: “What kind of coffin would you like? Steel? Pine? Walnut?” “How about cremation?” “Where would you like to be spread ?” He was 66. He and his best friend had gone hiking. On the drive home, for reasons unknown, my father lost control of his car and went off the side of a mountain. Cause of death: “multiple blunt force injuries.” Makes me think of ninjas (or Vikings) just cinematically whaling on him, pummeling his body. But what actually happened was less glamorous, more frightening and mundane. He and his friend got knocked around and smashed up in a Chrysler Town & Country minivan. No man wants to go out like that — certainly not my father, who loved Charles Bronson and felt a stronger devotion to a carton of cigarettes than to his own children. The local Korean newspaper ran a photo of a mangled vehicle (the same car I had learned to drive in) and a body on a str...