My father was in the room. I wasn’t the only one who felt him there.

I was standing in front of twenty-two people at a 55+ community in southeastern Massachusetts, part way through retelling my father’s Holocaust survival story. Actually, my father was in the middle of a segment from his testimony video. He’d recorded it months before his death in 1994. As usual, I took a step back and looked around the room to gauge interest. I don’t listen to my father’s words when it’s his turn to speak. That’s too much for me. Instead, I await the last three words in the segment, the words I have written in my notes.

This time, the sensation in the room was new to me. Suddenly, while he was still speaking, my dad arrived, initially filling the room.

I didn’t see a body, other than the rapt listeners.

There was no sound, other than my father’s voice coming from the speakers.

I smelled nothing different, just the carpet of a conference room.

Then, my father’s presence became more focused, hovering over there, on the right side of the room, on the aisle, in the third row.

My body straightened to attention. I shut my eyes, opened, repeated rapidly. I needed to fight the tears that wished to flow, I needed to stay in control. I breathed deeply, slowly. And again. Once more.

“ … No, I can’t send those people back … ” My dad was done speaking about the Queen of the Netherlands and it was my turn to resume our intertwined story. I’ve often felt my father watching me as I retraced his steps in Germany and the Netherlands, and even at other times when sharing his story. This time was different, his presence so overwhelming. For three seconds I weighed my options. Should I announce to the roomful of attentive listeners that a twenty-third soul had joined us? That he needed to sit with us all, to listen to his own story, to chat with the community members? But if I shared my sense of my father’s presence in this room, who would believe me?

I decided to keep his appearance to myself.

I finished up my presentation, as usual: “I ask you to perform even the smallest acts of kindness to help make our world a better place.” I responded to questions, then made my way to the book table. I enjoy the connections as I sign books: short, one-on-one conversations with individuals about the impact of my father’s story on them, and of their own hopes for the future.

One woman shared how moved she was, especially hearing my father’s voice. I smiled and nodded. I’d heard this at almost every event.

This woman continued, “At one point, the hairs on my arm stood up. I felt like he was standing right there, next to me.”

I held onto my smile, this time freaking out just a bit. This woman was sitting on the right side of the room. On the aisle. In the third row.

I don’t necessarily believe that my father guides me, appears alongside me, watches over me. Yet, there are so many experiences that leave me for want of any other possibility.

Dad, if it really is you, thank you.

Thank you for guiding me, then as now.

Thank you for quietly—or more palpably—supporting me in what I need to do.

Thank you for your incredible sense of hope and optimism that helped you through the most difficult of times and that help me as I try to heal.

Thank you for being there. And here.

Thank you for joining us.

Photo: Walter and Josh (my father and my son) in 1991.