To my father, Daniel.
For 20 years, we were separated by oceans and silence. In 1993, a twist of fate and a search from Berlin led me to the heavy steel gates of the Sunshine Hotel on the Bowery. I remember the sound of the electric buzzer and the gate opening on the push of a button.
I saw you coming down those stairs inside that old hotel. You looked like a man of a hundred years, though you were only fifty. We didn’t speak much that day; the shame and the years between us were like a wall. You couldn't look me in the eye, and the wire mesh of the 'flophouse' kept us apart even as we stood feet from each other.
I wrote to you from Berlin, hoping for a sign, but the silence remained. I only learned much later that you had passed away in 2006.
Finding you here on Hart Island, in Plot 322, Grave 18, finally gives me a place to put my thoughts. You are no longer 'unclaimed.' You were found by your son, who became the man you couldn't see that day at the gate.
Rest in peace, Dad. You are remembered."
