Days Alive: 12,225
Days Since Daddy’s Death: 6
I’m having a bit of a day today. I’ll be fine one moment, then crying the next.
I’m sure it is fairly normal.
Daddy’s funeral was less than a week ago. When I got up in front of a room half-filled with strangers who called him a friend, my voice broke before I even got my first sentence out.
“My father was a phenomenally flawed man,” I said, standing at the podium just vacated by some deacon that happened to be from Chicago and even went to the same high school as my father.
There were nods of agreement from those gathered before his casket, a chuckle from my godfather at my words.
I kept looking at the casket as I spoke. I called Daddy kind, compassionate. I said he had a magic way with words I could only hope to emulate. He had a personality and a laugh that could fill the room with ease. I said more, fighting each word out past the lump in my throat. He didn’t believe in strangers, would flirt with everyone. He was a kid at heart that took care of everyone else far better than he did himself.
In the end, my damn mascara held up far better than I did.
The entire service, I kept wandering back towards the casket. I flittered about the entire place, unable to keep still for long. I scooted the various floral arraignments left or right on their pedestals, so they better faced the casket. Told his too-still form that I thought about wearing green, his most hated color just so he’d sit up and argue with me.
When I spoke, later, sharing another anecdote. I said I was surprised everything started on time. I was willing to put money down that he was going to be five minutes late to his own funeral.
Daddy looked nice. The suit he loved looked odd on him as he lay there. His favorite tie was crooked. I must have tried to fix it four or five times. He had lost so much weight. He had a bruise on his right hand no amount of makeup seemed able to cover.
I’m still so angry he’s gone.
The woman who should have been his last wife, Christine, made sure he had his glasses on before people got there. I put them on him myself. It made me want to cry but I’m not sure why.
For some reason, I can’t get past how cold his hand was. How stiff and unnatural.
I miss him.
His health being what it was the last few months, I heard from him less than usual. The last conversation we had was about how Christmas was going to be in July this year. I had texted him to find out what he wanted. That was our last conversation with one another. We laughed, talked about how our family standard time was less linear than some.
I reminded him that he still owed me a game of mini-golf we were supposed to do for my sixteenth birthday. He said we’d get around to it one of these days.
I haven’t seen him since Good Friday of 2016. More than two years, almost three.
At the risk of sounding like a labyrinth-going teenager, it’s not fair.
We lost so many years to the poor choices of himself and others; lost to the distance of literal and emotional miles that others only seemed fit to broach.
I am still so phenomenally angry.