My father died in October 2006, after a good long life and among a large healthy family, so he could have done worse. He managed to acquire three children, four grandchildren, and one great grandchild by then. That was Otto, whom Dad declared a miracle when they met.

Otto has two brothers now, but he was only nine months old then. He came with his mother from Eugene to Marin County for the funeral.

I think we did a good job. We drank Dad’s favorite whiskey (Johnny Walker Black Label), we sang one of his favorite songs (I’ve Got Sixpence), and I recited one of his favorite poems (My Heart Leaps Up When I Behold a Rainbow in the Sky). But my best memory from the sad event is about Otto.

Throughout the speaking, he sat on his mother’s lap, next to my mother. It was clear that baby boy sensed the emotions around him. I don’t think the speeches went for more than ten minutes, but he was absolutely quiet throughout that time, perched sideways on Katie’s lap, looking into his great grandmother’s face with intent concern, patting and stroking her right arm.

Dad was right. Otto is a miracle. He’s almost 5½ now, and still attuned and sensitive to the emotional currents in which he wades.