about him now?
The car ride takes forever. We have to stop off at three different flower shops until mom finds the right bouquet, one that truly captures my dad’s essence.As if his corpse cares what the damn flowers look like. It’s not like he’ll get a chance to smell them in hell.
I drank a few too many beers last night. I rest my head against the passenger window and try to take a power nap while she drives, but my mom keeps going on about some country club friend of hers whose husband was caught sleeping with a twenty-three-year-old intern. I don’t care how the divorce proceedings are going or how much of a settlement this woman is entitled to. All I care about is this throbbing vein above my temple and a growing need for my warm, cozy bed with Egyptian cotton sheets.
The sheets were a gift from Jackson’s step-mother, the only sane person in his family and the only family member of his I’ll miss. One thing I know for certain, I won’t miss Jackson. The more I think about this breakup, the more I realize it was a long time overdue.
We pull into the cemetery, and I shudder when I see a funeral is taking place just beyond the gate we’ll need to pass through to get to Dad’s tombstone.
We make a hasty entrance. I follow Mom’s lead, trying not to look at the crowd of mourners. Just my luck, it’s starting to mist again, and I feel like the gloom from the overcast day settles inside my chest like a thick haze. I really don’t want to be here. Lots of people are crying, and I don’t know why, but it breaks my heart. I don’t even know these people. I shouldn’t have feelings for them.
Mom hangs back and walks beside me, nudging me in the ribs. “Did you see the widower?” she asks. “He’s not bad looking.”
I roll my eyes. “Mom, I’m pretty sure this isn’t the right time to be shopping for your future husband.”
She shrugs and continues walking. Honestly, there are days when I wonder if I wasn’t adopted, or maybe sired by aliens and switched at birth. If so, I hope my alien parents will come get me soon and save me from this hellish life.
We finally come to my dad’s plot, and I glare at his tombstone, wanting so badly to take a hammer and bust it to pieces. Nobody consulted me when they decided to engrave the stone with “Beloved Father,” because if I had been asked, I would have added a few choice modifiers to his name, like asshammer, douchenozzle, pedophile, and rapist.
My mom places the flowers on his grave, bows her head, and whispers a few words. I can’t hear what she’s saying and I don’t care. I just want to get the fuck out of here. The mourners from the funeral are still sobbing. I can tell whomever they are crying over is worthy of their tears. I assume the person who died was nothing like my father.
Damn, I hate visiting my dad’s grave.
My heart swells with regret when I think of him. I’m not so upset he had a massive heart attack the day after my eighteenth Birthday. I’m more upset he never got a chance to apologize to me for what he’d done.
I’d have to carry those painful memories from that fateful night for the rest of my life, wondering why he did it, why he blamed me, and then why he went on about his life like nothing happened.
And now it’s too late to ask him why, because he’s dead, hopefully rotting in some dark shithole. If I could travel back in time, I’d tell my dad to think about the consequences before deciding to sneak into my room in a drunken stupor. I’d tell him nothing could undo the emotional and physical scars I now carry with me after he took my virginity when I was only fifteen.
But I can’t travel back in time. I can’t undo what he’s done, so I scowl at his tombstone while my mother silently weeps beside me. Out loud, I tell my dad to rest in peace. Inside, I tell him I’ll never forgive him.
Never.
* * *
“So what did you and Jackson do last night?” Mom is dabbing her eyes with an embroidered kerchief
The car ride takes forever. We have to stop off at three different flower shops until mom finds the right bouquet, one that truly captures my dad’s essence.As if his corpse cares what the damn flowers look like. It’s not like he’ll get a chance to smell them in hell.
I drank a few too many beers last night. I rest my head against the passenger window and try to take a power nap while she drives, but my mom keeps going on about some country club friend of hers whose husband was caught sleeping with a twenty-three-year-old intern. I don’t care how the divorce proceedings are going or how much of a settlement this woman is entitled to. All I care about is this throbbing vein above my temple and a growing need for my warm, cozy bed with Egyptian cotton sheets.
The sheets were a gift from Jackson’s step-mother, the only sane person in his family and the only family member of his I’ll miss. One thing I know for certain, I won’t miss Jackson. The more I think about this breakup, the more I realize it was a long time overdue.
We pull into the cemetery, and I shudder when I see a funeral is taking place just beyond the gate we’ll need to pass through to get to Dad’s tombstone.
We make a hasty entrance. I follow Mom’s lead, trying not to look at the crowd of mourners. Just my luck, it’s starting to mist again, and I feel like the gloom from the overcast day settles inside my chest like a thick haze. I really don’t want to be here. Lots of people are crying, and I don’t know why, but it breaks my heart. I don’t even know these people. I shouldn’t have feelings for them.
Mom hangs back and walks beside me, nudging me in the ribs. “Did you see the widower?” she asks. “He’s not bad looking.”
I roll my eyes. “Mom, I’m pretty sure this isn’t the right time to be shopping for your future husband.”
She shrugs and continues walking. Honestly, there are days when I wonder if I wasn’t adopted, or maybe sired by aliens and switched at birth. If so, I hope my alien parents will come get me soon and save me from this hellish life.
We finally come to my dad’s plot, and I glare at his tombstone, wanting so badly to take a hammer and bust it to pieces. Nobody consulted me when they decided to engrave the stone with “Beloved Father,” because if I had been asked, I would have added a few choice modifiers to his name, like asshammer, douchenozzle, pedophile, and rapist.
My mom places the flowers on his grave, bows her head, and whispers a few words. I can’t hear what she’s saying and I don’t care. I just want to get the fuck out of here. The mourners from the funeral are still sobbing. I can tell whomever they are crying over is worthy of their tears. I assume the person who died was nothing like my father.
Damn, I hate visiting my dad’s grave.
My heart swells with regret when I think of him. I’m not so upset he had a massive heart attack the day after my eighteenth Birthday. I’m more upset he never got a chance to apologize to me for what he’d done.
I’d have to carry those painful memories from that fateful night for the rest of my life, wondering why he did it, why he blamed me, and then why he went on about his life like nothing happened.
And now it’s too late to ask him why, because he’s dead, hopefully rotting in some dark shithole. If I could travel back in time, I’d tell my dad to think about the consequences before deciding to sneak into my room in a drunken stupor. I’d tell him nothing could undo the emotional and physical scars I now carry with me after he took my virginity when I was only fifteen.
But I can’t travel back in time. I can’t undo what he’s done, so I scowl at his tombstone while my mother silently weeps beside me. Out loud, I tell my dad to rest in peace. Inside, I tell him I’ll never forgive him.
Never.
* * *
“So what did you and Jackson do last night?” Mom is dabbing her eyes with an embroidered kerchief
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