E.T., blockbuster movie of the year, brought a full house at the theater. 
Dad, Mom, and I just knew we'd have to forget finding three seats together.  
"Just get anything," Mom whispered, as the three of us scanned the audience.  
I found two seats in one row, then one seat for me two rows back.  "You sit 
with your mother, Ger."  "No daddy, you sit with Mom."  Behind this banter, 
concern.  Dad and I needed easy escapes, using, "Excuse me, sorry, pardon 
me," smiling while wishing we could scream, "Get-out-of-my-way.  
Let-me-through.  Don't you know anything about panic attacks?"  Dad needed to 
sit with Mom.
    Once the movie started, we settled in.  I watched Daddy's broad shoulders 
for any movement signaling, "Get me out of here."  E.T., the embodiment of 
goodness and naivete, captured Daddy's heart.  His shoulders didn't twitch, 
nor did he shuffle in his seat, but stared wrapped in attention at the little 
fellow's flight.
    E.T. wants to phone home, so sick, perhaps dying.  My father's shoulders 
begin to shake, not an anxiety gesture, but one projecting a man trying not 
to cry.  Finally, shoulders heaving, Dad's familiar cough comes on and he 
pops a cough drop in his mouth, then Mom hands him a Kleenex to dry his eyes, 
but the shoulders heave, and I hear his throaty sobs.  Mom, turns to me, a 
frown on her face, her head tips to her left, towards Dad, all gestures 
indicating disgust.
    Dad and I weren't the only ones crying as we left the theater.  He chokes 
out the words, "Gee, I'm glad we came."  I hook my arm around his, while Mom 
strides out of the theater before us.
    Ten years later Dad lies in his hospital bed at home in NJ.  He's at the 
point where he picks at the plastic on his diaper.  Pick, pick, scrunching 
noises, lead to a mass of torn material.  We ask Hospice angels for 
suggestions.  "Does he have anything he can pick at?" the hospice nurse asks. 
"No," Mom says.  "Wait a minute;" I say, "I'll be right back."  I come 
downstairs with two articles.  I hand Dad a baby gorilla, which he backs away 
from.  Then, I hand him E.T., and Dad eagerly holds the replica to him, 
picking at its plastic material.
    Weeks later, Dad passes on with E.T. clasped in his arms.  The day he 
died, I had to be in Boston.  Mom called me at six thirty a.m., telling me 
what I already knew.  Dad died.  His body waited cremation.  Mom said, "I 
kept the E.T. doll for you, honey."  My sigh came from deep within my being.  
Oh, Mom, you sent Dad home, -- alone.