A Shrine for My Atheist Dad

There’s a spot where I keep photos of my ancestors who’ve crossed over.

Grand-mère Marieanne, stylishly walking a collie.

Serious Mama Cristina, who crossed the ocean at 19.

Nana and Boppa, dolled up like 40’s movie stars.

And there’s Dad, squinting at the sun in his tie t-shirt. My atheist dad, who made a living writing supernatural horror. Would he roll in his grave to find himself included? If he knows, he knows he knows.

My dad was a proud atheist. He’d tell you about the Barnum-Forer effect and make disparaging comments about believers’ intelligence. But he was also an artist, with more intuition than he knew what to do with. He talked to ghosts, spoke prophecies, and wrote stories about the dark unknown, transmuting it into something beautiful. In paint, he captured the boughs of ancient trees, the weathered patience of abandoned homes.

Visit