My mom and dad, Jo and Frank, are resting in a nice quiet place. An open green spot in New Jersey horse country. They have a small place in a sturdy stone and marble wall just big enough for the two of them. Mom in her cloisonné. Dad in his brass with the U.S. Army insignia. 

We, Geoff and I, visit them a couple of times a year. We always bring a plant. Never just flowers. They loved their garden. We always stand and talk to them, silently. I give them the news, ask them for advice and understanding, apologize for what I did when I was six and twenty and forty and on and on, tell them we love them and miss them. And I ask, well, beg really, if they can exert their now other worldly powers to make things right with the world. Does parenting ever end?

Perhaps, I ask my mother, who was a great organizer, and my father, who was a trusty side kick, they could corral a bunch of the friends they’ve made on the other side of life to pool the collective wisdom they’ve gained — and those of us still strutting and fretting our hours on the stage can’t seem to grasp — to advocate on behalf of their children and grandchildren — the future. I ask, plead with, my mom and dad to petition all the big guys, all the spirits in the sky, every deity, every religion to steady this shaky planet, to knock off all the baloney and stop the ugliness.