“You seem surprised,” says the grinning skeleton of my father from his underground bed in Cortlandt, NY, “that telling the story of my life seems to have taken an inevitable swerve to the dark side.”   Now that he mentions it, no, I’m not really that surprised.  

“Picture me trying to write about my mother, may she rest in peace, or my father, may he rest in peace,” says Irv’s skeleton with that winning smile skeletons always have.  “I might as well try to write about my feelings about all the aunts and uncles, and mom’s aunts and uncles, who wound up murdered in pits, or starved, or dead of disease because, well, you know.”

He pauses a moment to let the subject fade.  “I want you to know, I applaud your effort to tell a nuanced story of my life, I really do, and to put my values in perspective, but, seriously, in light of everything, do you think such a thing can be done?”  You know, now that he mentions it, no, probably not.  

“And of course, Elie, you realize full well that I’m incapable of saying the things you are transcribing now, as plausible as they may otherwise be,” he says with the great sympathy he was generally able not to let himself succumb to.  

“As to the sympathy, well, some things are much easier after death.  Look, that long struggle I had during my life to never be wrong– done!  I can admit anything I told you on my death bed.   Read the transcript, I left those admissions for you to work from.”

Sure thing, pops, let’s go to the videotape.