Ghosts

In my closet, in J.P.'s room, I have a small, black and white photograph of my father (Howard Newman, M.D.) on the wall at eye level.  He's appears to be at work, signing (with his left hand) orders or a stack of papers of some sort.  He's looking into the camera, smiling.  I glance at the photograph each morning and night, when I go into the closet, as I'm getting dressed or changing clothes.  I know, a closet is a strange place for a photograph, but it reassures me to look at it there each day.

Routinely, J.P. goes into the closet, shuts the door behind him, then knocks on it from the inside.  We say, "who is it?"  He responds, "J.P. Newman," opens the door, and walks out into the room.  It's one of his favorite games. 

Last night, he followed me into the closet, as I was hanging up my suit, and closed the door behind him.  I picked him up and was pointing out all the baseball caps hanging on the wall, above the door.  I also pointed out several stickers I'd placed on the doorframe, inside the closet, over the past several years.  He was quiet, taking everything in, probably because his view of the closet has always been limited by what he can see from ground level.

What happened next was strange, a little eerie, but also amazing.

He saw the photograph of my father for the first time, to the left of the door.  Before I could say a word, he pointed at it and said, "Daddy's Dada."

For one of the few times in my life, I was speechless.