It’s a bird-chirping, sky-blue Sunday on April 18, 2011.

“Let’s go to the cemetery,” said Mark.

My husband hankers to visit relatives that moved to heaven.  With our young son, Joseph, we cross town to St. John’s Cemetery that borders Darien.  We toss prayers to Mark’s grandparents, Uncle Bino and Aunt Lettie, then, on a whim, I’m on a look-out for Daddy’s grave.

I remember the directions that Maria gave me to find his grave, near a pillar of an oak tree that’s close to a chain-link fence that separates a neighbor, Harisonic Labs, where Mom worked long ago.  Can’t find him.  I watch my feet circle round the baby-green grass of Spring, think of Daddy’s icy, sky-blue eyes, that had a touch of green, listen to Joseph’s “He’s not over here, Mom” updates, then see daffodil shoots near a grave marker overgrown with grass.   I know Barbara planted flowers at Daddy’s grave.

The daffodils beckon.

I look for Daddy.

“I found him!”  I call to Mark and Joseph.

I got the lucky penny, the four-leaf-clover, the Italian horn of good luck, the Cornicello, the golden egg of the Easter hunt, the not-even-replaceable-with-$300,000, bloom of love that races in my heart.  I don’t know why I’ve never been here before.  I am here now.

Daddy’s buried in an area for veterans.  The grave marker reads:

Joseph T. Bankowski

PFC U. S. Army

Korean

1927- 1979

I look up at Mark for strength.

“I never knew he served in Korea!”  The imaginary cord to Daddy snakes out of my mouth.  That cord isn’t cut yet.

“I always thought it was Uncle Pippi giving you signs, Jeanne, but it was your father all of the time,” said Mark.

We clear the grass that fringes the edge of the grave marker.  Joseph cleans it, works meticulously, swipes the dirt away with fingers.  Joseph, who I named after Daddy.  He finds a small, American flag, lucky, as only some kids are lucky, and pokes it into the dirt.

“Let’s come back here at Easter and bring flowers, Mom,” said Joseph.

Thank you, Dear, Sweet, Jesus, for my son.

At home, Joseph lines up army men toys and a small gift box on the kitchen counter.

“Which one do you think your Dad will like, Mom?”  He matter-of-factly points to the men.

I’ve never heard those words before.  The strange words might as well be an ordinary chat about Joseph’s grandpa, as though he’s a rich part of our everyday life, with a recent visit and a shared lasagna for supper.

“I think he’d like the blue guy,” I said.

“That’s the one I’ll bring on Easter,” said Joseph, and he put the army man into the box.

Thank you, Dear, Sweet, Jesus, for your great suffering, for rising from the dead, and giving me the hope of life beyond the grave.  Thank you, Dear, Sweet, Jesus, for my Easter love that falls into my son’s sky-blue eyes.