I received a voicemail from a number I didn't know and sat down to listen. I'd just gotten a new phone and number. I assumed it would be a robot's voice or a scam, but it turned out to be a man leaving a voicemail for his recently deceased father. I guess they give away dead people's numbers as fast as they can.

"It's Joey, Pops," the voicemail began. "Remember when we went hunting up Cypress Ranch and you left me in the woods as it got dark? Doesn't seem like something you'd forget. I was six. I thought I'd die out there, eaten by wolves, starved, or frozen to death, one. You were sitting on the truck bed whistling when I found my way out. I was so happy to see you I wasn't even mad. Remember what you said? 'Took long enough.'"

After that, the voicemail morphed into a heartfelt declaration of how much Joey realized he loved his dad despite their differences.

"No idea where you are, Dad," Joey concluded. "And I know it's strange to leave this voicemail, but I figure not any stranger than a prayer, and who knows, maybe you'll hear it."

Then he hung up.

I felt compelled to find out who Joey was, so I paid one of those sites that lets you search phone numbers. He didn't live that far away. I dug some more and found his old man's obituary in the Denver Post. It led me to the graveyard, which was out in Littleton on a hill that overlooked a park with a lake. It seemed like a bad place for a graveyard, but a nice enough spot to be buried. I found the dad's grave. The headstone was aggressive in its modesty. His name was Frank Ranier. 1950-2021. That was the only thing etched on the headstone. There were no other Raniers around. I sat down on a bench and played on my phone. I don't know, I liked it out there. It was damn quiet. I started making it a regular thing. I'd go out there several times a week in the late afternoon. The sun lowering in the sky gave the headstones a haunting definition. You could smell the flowers when a breeze blew. Suburbanites dotted the park below, moms and small children. Dogs. They all seemed to have it made. I started bringing a camp chair and sitting right beside Frank Ranier's grave instead of the bench.

One night, when I was about to leave, a guy staggered up to the grave like he'd had a few. I didn't have to guess that it was Joey.

"Who the fuck are you?" he said.

"By some twist of fate or another, I ended up with your dad's old number," I said.

He didn't put it together.

"I got your voicemail," I continued.

The gears turned.

"And now you come out here and sit by my dad's grave?"

"That's right," I said.

"God damn," he said. "That's a story."

He sat on the ground by the headstone and lit a cigarette. He handed me one, which I took though I didn't smoke. He had a flask in his pocket, and he handed me that too. Bad whiskey. We talked until past dark. He talked about his dad and his own life. He was separated with no chance for reconciliation. Two kids. Drove long haul.

"I love the woman," Joey said. "Probably always will, but sometimes you've got to let a wild one go."

He was never in town more than a day or two at a time, so the ex and kids stayed in the house they'd all lived in together and Joey slept in the guestroom when he wasn't on the road.

"Makes more sense for everybody than going through the legal of the divorce," Joey said.

I wasn't sure it did but didn't say that.

"You know what else?"

"I don't."

"I love my kids," he said, taking a long drag. "But one of the main reasons I didn't up and leave is because I couldn't stand the idea of not being able to see my dog."

It got late and we both fell silent after that. I didn't know if I should leave, or if he should.

"It was god damn nice to meet you," he finally said, standing to go. "Maybe I'll see you out here again."

I couldn't help but laugh, "Yeah, maybe."

I watched Joey walk past all the headstones until he disappeared below the hill at the edge of the graveyard. I heard his car start and move away. The night sky held no moon. Not a bit of wind. I stole a flower from another grave and placed it on Frank Ranier's grave.

"You did all right, Frank," I said.

I walked through the dark graveyard toward the parking lot, hearing the sounds of the city in the distance, sirens mostly, then climbed in my car. On the drive, "Spirit in the Sky" by Norman Greenbaum came on the classic rock station. I turned it up to the point of static and rolled down the windows. I used the car lighter to light the cigarette Joey gave me. Instead of taking the interstate, I took South Broadway which was the most picturesque way to enter Denver. I punched the gas and drove toward the skyscrapers. They resembled giant headstones lit up against the black of night. 


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