Dad was... eccentric. I suppose that's the kindest way to describe someone like him. He was incredibly religious... to a fault. He tithed well over twenty percent and knew the Bible front to back. That's not to say we were ever hitting for money. Dad was incredibly wealthy; when we asked him where his money came from, he would always just say: "The Lord provides."

Well, that provision ran out when he got Parkinson's. Dad wasn't built like Hulk Hogan or anything, but he was no slouch. "Your body is a temple, son! I won't let mine fall into disrepair!" He would say with a bright smile on our Saturday morning bike rides. That temple became a weak, shaky cottage after the Parkinson's got him. As the years went by, I watched my hero deteriorate, but he still held tight to his faith in all of it. He would pray, tithe, read his Bible— all of that stuff. And he still managed to make time for Mom and the rest of us. It was almost supernatural the way he continued on as the disease wrecked his body.

The signs of his impending death were obvious. Lack of mobility, difficulty speaking and thinking straight... That's what made one of the last conversations we had so strange.

I was sitting by his bed one day, scrolling through my phone and keeping him company, when he started to sit up, "Alex." I dropped my phone and quickly moved to help him sit up, propping him against his pillows. "Alex, I need to tell you something..." His breathing was labored and despite my cautioning for him to stop talking, he insisted it was important. "When I was a young boy, I got very sick. We weren't sure what it was and the doctors weren't either. I wasn't really religious at the time and neither were my folks." He stopped to take a breath and leaned back against the pillows.

"But we all prayed. Me most of all. I was a kid; didn't want to die so young. One night, at the hospital, I was alone in the room when a man came in. He was wearing a dark purple cloak that seemed to cast a shadow on all of his features. He was crying as he sat down... sniffling. He told me that he was so sad I was sick and that he was mourning for me." My dad's brow furrowed as he recounted the memory. "I didn't know who he was and when I asked his name, he just said 'The Mourner.' Now, I didn't know much as a boy, but I put two and two together. I thought he was one of those priests they send into the room when you're going to die to talk about the Lord and stuff. Still, couldn't see a face or body under the robe."

I wasn't sure where this story was going; was it just the Parkinson's? He'd never told me this before and my father loved to tell stories. "Anyhow, he told me he had a deal for me. He had talked with The Man Upstairs and they'd agreed that if I agreed to be faithful and to live a righteous life, I'd live quite a while and have quite the go of it. I figured I had nothing to lose, so I agreed." He looked me in the eyes with as serious an expression as ever, "and when I tell you that the next day I was right as rain, I'm not kidding. All of my sickness was just gone. I figured that since that guy had lived up to his end of the bargain, I should too. So, I devoted my life to being righteous for the Lord. Now, I'm not a perfect man, but I did my best. I ended up loving it. Had a great life with a great family."

"Why are you telling me this, dad? Why now?" I asked, confused by the story and its purpose.

"He'll be at my funeral, son. Call it a gut feeling. But The Mourner, whether he's man or angel or something else, needs to be treated with the utmost respect. You hear me? No one is to say an unkind word to him or do anything out of line. I need you to promise me to make sure you all follow that rule." Dad gripped my hand tightly... impossibly right for someone so weak. "Promise me."

He seemed really intense, so I agreed, mostly just to calm him down. That seemed to placate him and, soon enough, he'd laid back down to rest. I talked to my mother about it and she seemed unsurprised. She said that dad had told her about this as well a few days ago. We both chalked it up to his disease affecting his mind and went on with our day.

The day of his funeral, a veritable congregation of people had shown up. Dad had reached a lot of people and done good in a lot of lives. Friends, family, colleagues — they were all here. I scouted the crowd for this cloaked man, but didn't see him. Maybe a part of me thought dad was actually telling the truth. I shook the thought from my head and gave the eulogy. There were tears aplenty as we moved into the viewing. Dad had wanted an open casket, so that's what we did.

Then, he showed up. One moment, the space in front of his casket was empty and the next, a wailing man stood in front of it. The entire room hushed as the cloaked figure stood screaming out in anguish. I'd never heard a man make noises like that before! The intense sadness seemed almost theatric. We waited for a few moments, but the man did not let up. He kept wailing with his back to the room. The cry was deep and hoarse, like he had been crying for a tone far longer than just this moment.

To everyone else, this was just a very awkward man's display of sorrow. To my mother and I, this was confirmation of what dad had told us. At least in some part. Maybe he was one of dad's friends and dad had romanticized their meeting in a way. I don't know. In that moment, I wasn't sure. I wasn't even sure what to do.

I felt this pang of sadness inside of me. I had already bawled and cried for the loss of my father, but this was different. It felt more... existential? Holy? It felt as if the world had lost something truly great and I was just coming to terms with it. I was paralyzed as my emotions swirled inside of me. The sadness was overwhelming, but there was a fear as well. This sadness was not my own... It had been put there. Some force had planted it in my mind and that unnerved me. I wasn't even aware that the man had stopped wailing and had approached me.

"I am truly sorry for your loss," came his voice. It sounded deep and old and like it came from deep within him. I felt something clasp around my hands and looked down to see two shadowy hands holding mine.

I fought the instinct to recoil in fear. Dad had said to respect this... man, so I would. "T-thank you," I stuttered, any foreign emotion now drowned out by the primal fear I had within me. "How did you know my father, if you don't mind me asking?" I looked up and into the cloak, only inky darkness filling its void.

"As the Son of Man knew Lazarus and wept for him, so too I weep. I am his tears for his friend and his cry in Gethsemane made form. I am mourning. I am sorrow. I am rejoicing. I am laughter. Those deemed righteous by Him are honored by my presence in their final days as I perform a symphony of sorrows for them to honor their life well-lived." He replied, his hands still holding mine. They were cold and icy despite seemingly being just shadows.

His cryptic speaking did nothing to answer my many questions, least of all the one I had asked. I was about to say something when he spoke up.

"So, Alex, will I weep for you as well one day?" The question lingered as did his missing presence. At the finality of his words, he vanished without a trace.

Those words have echoed in my mind ever since along with the many questions they brought. He did provide me with comfort that my father truly is in a better place.

This whole ordeal has brought to mind something that I had long since categorized as an odd dream and forgotten it: When I was a child, I became sick much like my father at his age. Only, the man who showed up next to my bed wasn't crying.

He was laughing.