It’s been almost ten years since my father’s death and I want a place to mourn him. Only there is no such place. My father, who lived and died in New York City, chose to be cremated and to have his ashes disposed of without a burial site. The decision to end his life defying yet another Jewish law was the final act of a man who disdained religion. It began with his being named after his still-living father and his own insistence on always being referred to as Ralph Colp, Jr., even long after his father had died. It continued with the absence of a bar mitzvah, a love of pork, and a preference for celebrating Christmas rather than any Jewish holiday. He was, as fellow psychiatrist, Sigmund Freud, famously described himself: a “godless Jew.” But in refusing to have a gravesite, I think my father finally went too far.

Even Freud’s remains are marked by a headstone at the Golders Green Crematorium in London that can visited by his admirers. On this milestone anniversary, I would have liked to meet my father at the only place the living can meet the dead. Call it primitive or pagan. Argue that we can memorialize the dead at ceremonies, internal monologue, and writing. But there is solace and meaning in having a tangible place.

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I have found this to be true with the other most important person I have lost in my life – my husband. Going every year with my children to his gravesite, wiping away the accumulated dirt, laying flowers and small stones, and just sitting there and talking, makes us feel connected to him. We also like knowing that he’s not far away from us. If there were a gravesite for my father, I would travel there for a serious talk. I would tell him that although he was a complex and often difficult man for whom fathering did not always come easy he gave me two great gifts which have shaped my life. The first gift was his adoration of the written word and the love of ideas.

He saw psychiatric patients well into his eighth decade and was very content in his work. But he had equal, if not more, passion for his hobby, which was research and writing. He wrote two books on Charles Darwin and innumerable academic articles on such varied subjects as surgeon William Halsted, Sacco and Vanzetti, Trotsky, Stalin and medical history. The sound of his typewriter clacking was the soothing background noise to which I fell asleep at night; more than anything, it signified home.

And then there was his book collection which numbered well into the thousands. Those books, mostly on the history of the fascinating period of his youth including the Spanish Civil War, Stalinism and World War II, were his sacred texts. He brought several tomes with him on his honeymoon in Mexico, much to my mother’s chagrin. He never let anyone read or even touch them. Their presence in every room meant that the apartment could never be painted or properly cleaned. I alternatively worshipped and loathed them, but they influenced me greatly. Every Saturday, beginning when I was about ten, I dragged a portable typewriter to the long mahogany dining room table where we had our family dinners.