A Father’s Death

I lay on the grave looking up at the tattered clouds in the darkening sky thinking how sadly pathetic it was to feel nothing for the person that had just been buried underneath me.  This was my father’s grave. We buried him yesterday.  He had turned 72 last Wednesday.  There was no party, no fanfare, not even an intimate family get-together.  My father was a prick of a human being and was hated by just about everybody who came in contact with him, including me.  He made my younger years a living hell.  My mother left him, us, when I was just five.  My brother and sister live as far away from this shit town as possible, mostly they left to get away from him.  They didn’t even show up to spit on his grave.  He’s been long forgotten by them.  No, it was just me putting ol’ pops into the ground.  It was just me that hung around to make sure he was taken care of, no matter how much he screamed at me to get the hell away or told me how inadequate I was at just about everything in life I tried to do.  And it was me who found him sitting in his TV chair with that stupid baseball cap he always wore still sitting on his head.  I swear he wore that thing to bed.  His coat was slung over the dining room chair, and the newspaper was sitting on his lap.  You would have thought he was just napping between pages.

The doctor said he didn’t die in pain, said he probably just closed  his eyes and then never opened them again.  How absolutely cruel of him, even in the end.  I wanted him to have a lingering cancer that ate away at his organs, anything that would have been long and painful.  It’s just not fair that he didn’t suffer.

“He should have suffered, God!  He should have felt some remorse and pain.”  I screamed, as tears slid down my face to land in the dirt beneath me.  

 

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