“You will always be  
in my heart…   
because in there,   
you’re still alive.”    
Jamie Cirello 

“Hey,… wait up!”

I heard the man’s voice behind me. It sounded eerily familiar, but I didn’t give it much thought. I was walking alone in The City. No one knew I was there that day, so I knew he wasn’t talking to me. I had taken CalTrain from Santa Clara Station in the South Bay to 4th & King, and I was walking along the Embarcadero headed toward Fisherman’s Wharf. Then, I heard it again.

“Hey,… wait up!” The voice sounded just like my father. Dad died on the last day of July 2008. This was mid-October 2025. Curiosity got the better of me, so I turn to take a quick peek.

“Dad?” I responded in astonishment. There he was, wearing a San Francisco Fire Department sweatshirt and his signature bucket hat. He looked much younger than the man who would have celebrated his 100th birthday on October 25th. In fact, he looked younger than me that day.

“You’re a fast walker,” he exclaimed. “I’ve been trying to catch up to you for the past two blocks.”

“Dad?” I asked again, unable to comprehend exactly what I was seeing.

“I’d love to join you on your walk,… if you don’t mind.”

“I, uh… No, I don’t mind at all,” I stammered. “But how…” Before I could finish my question, Dad gave me a bear hug and suggested that I slow my pace a bit so that he could keep up with me. 

“I know,…” he said with a tone of compassion, “…you weren’t expecting to see me. You probably have no idea that I’ve been with you on dozens of your walks here in The City during the past few years. I especially enjoyed the one you took in July, on the anniversary of my passing. I’m so glad you stopped in for Mass at St. Paul’s that morning. Those hills on Clipper and Diamond Streets were a killer, but I did my best to keep up.”

“You were with me?” I asked.

“I sure was. The cinnamon oatmeal pancakes you got for breakfast at Chloe’s on Church Street that morning looked and smelled amazing. I would love to have taken a bite or two.”

“You were…” I stopped and looked into Dad’s eyes. “You were with me at Chloe’s?”

“Yes, I was. When I was just a kid living at 25th & Sanchez, it was a real treat for me to go there for breakfast now and then. It wasn’t called Chloe’s at the time. I don’t remember the name of the place, but the food was delicious. C’mon,… let’s keep walking.”

And that’s how the day got started. I was walking along the Embarcadero in San Francisco with my Dad,… who had died seventeen years earlier. For a while, I tried to make sense of what was happening, but I couldn’t. It just didn’t make sense. So instead of over-thinking it, I decided to embrace the moment, to engage in conversation with him, and to savor every moment of our time together.

We talked about Dad’s days in the fire department. He told me several stories, only a few of which I had heard previously, of memorable fires he had fought in various neighborhoods in The City. He spoke fondly of his relationships with his colleagues, and described how they would often sit around in the kitchen between calls drinking coffee and discussing everything from the woes of the San Francisco Giants to the possibility of life after death.

He enjoyed a good laugh recalling the ingenious pranks Louie Grossman would play on passers-by outside Rescue One when it was located in the alley off 5th & Mission. And he spoke of his commitment to studying for promotional exams, sitting at the dining room table in our home on 38th Avenue with Ron McInnis, on their days off. 

Dad got a bit emotional describing what he went through when, shortly after being appointed to the position of Battalion Chief, he was informed that, due to the serious back injury he had sustained on the job, he would not be allowed to continue his career in the department. 

Then Dad suddenly stopped. “Hey,…” he said, seemingly annoyed, “…have you seen what they’re doing to the new S.I. campus?” Apparently, he was aware that just fifty-six years after the construction of what was then the “new” campus, facilities he had worked tirelessly with Father Harry Carlin to raise funds to build, they had torn down the three large buildings at the north end of the campus — the Carlin Commons, the Orradre Chapel, and McGucken Hall, which had served as the residence of the Jesuit community since 1970, to make room for the construction of a new, state-of-the-art learning center. He was clearly not pleased with this development.

As we approached the fire station on the Embarcadero, which is home to Engine 35 and the fire boats, I asked Dad what he thought of the new floating station behind the original structure. He chuckled and told me that he could never have worked there, because he’d most likely have gotten motion sickness from the constant rocking back and forth.

When we got to the Ferry Building, I pointed across the street to Justin Herman Plaza and asked Dad if he remembered that day back in the late ‘80s when he and I had walked together from the Palace of the Legion of Honor, through Sea Cliff and the Presidio, under the Golden Gate Bridge, down to Crissy Field and the Marina Green, then along Fisherman’s Wharf and the Embarcadero before stopping at Justin Herman Plaza for an ice cream to end our epic walk. Of course, he remembered it well. We both laughed, because at one point during that walk, while hiking up the steep hill from Baker Beach to the bridge, I didn’t want to admit that I was having a difficult time keeping up with him, while at the same time he didn’t want to admit that he was struggling to keep up with me. Men can be like that sometimes!

Standing there in front of the Ferry Building, Dad suddenly said, “Hey, I gotta go. I love you.” He gave me another bear hug, this one significantly longer than the previous hug. I didn’t want to let go. I just kept holding on, and holding on,… 

“I love you, too,” I replied. And just like that, he was gone — and I woke up… with tears streaming down my face.