But now . . . now, without Mom . . . he just . . . damn. Itâs like he fell apart. At the same time, I kinda understood. And literally, by the time I stood back up, he was already âsleep, slumped in the chair, snoring. And I looked at him like he was my kidâlike we had switched places and this was his first night getting wasted and I was suppose to yell or punish him or tell him how irresponsible he was. Again . . . backward. And I couldnât do none of that. Because he wasnât my son. He was my father. All I could do was pray to God that he would get a handle on it.
The next morning was weird for a few reasons. The first was, I decided to put on a suit. The same one I wore to my momâs funeral. The only one I had. I figured since I was now working at a funeral home, a suit would be a better look than jeans and Nikes. Yeah, I knew that it would draw attention that I really didnât want at school, but I figured a few hours of immature giggles were better than having to put on Mr. Rayâs jacket that smelled like old man. At least my suit fit. And it smelled like me, which smells like nothing. Not to mention, I didnât look too bad in it, though I must admit it always took me a few tries to get the tie right. The first two times it always ended up a tiny, little, jacked-up knot. Then I remember to loop it twice, and itâs good.
The second thing that was weird about the morning was mydad. I didnât come downstairs and find him with his forehead slammed against the kitchen table, drool oozing from his mouth like slime, which is definitely what I was expecting. Instead, I came downstairs to a clean kitchen. No glass, no blood stains on the floor, not even a whiff of leftover funk. My father stood at the stove sipping from his usual mug, the smell of burned coffee and almost-burned toast in the air. (He canât cook a lick. Canât even make toast!) His right handâthe cut oneâwas neatly bandaged and he held the coffee cup in his left, which was funny because heâs right-handed and was clearly having a hard time getting the mug to his lips. But that seemed to be the only thing he was having a hard time with.
âMorning, Matt,â he said, like nothing had happened a few hours before. Then he looked me up and down. âWhatâs with the suit?â
âDoing some work for Mr. Ray after school,â I explained, but for some reason I felt like it went in one ear and out the other. It was like he wanted to know why I had on the suit I wore to Momâs funeral, but he didnât really want to know. He also was standing at the sink, and didnât notice that the picture of us at the beach was gone. I had taken it to my room the night before.
He shrugged and went back to his toast and coffee.
âWant breakfast?â he said, plain.
I stood there for a second and examined him. He was in his raggedy gray sweatpants, his belly poking out as usual. This had become his uniform since he had decided to take some time off from fixing up housesâstripping floors, dry wall, the wholenine. Now his day job was pretending nothing was wrong. But he couldnât fool me. He wasnât okay.
âNaw, I donât want to be late,â I said, still feeling uncomfortable about last night and wanting to get out of Bizzaro World as fast as possible. Even school would be less strange than the kitchen I spent the last seventeen years in.
My father smirked. âHey, itâs your funeral.â Heâs said that line tons of times, but on this day it stung, and even pissed me off a little since I was literally just babysitting him a few hours before. I wanted to say back, and it was almost yours last night.
âYeah,â I said, throwing my backpack over my shoulder, suddenly wondering if I should go back on my promise to myself about not saying anything.
I turned toward the front door, but then he began
The next morning was weird for a few reasons. The first was, I decided to put on a suit. The same one I wore to my momâs funeral. The only one I had. I figured since I was now working at a funeral home, a suit would be a better look than jeans and Nikes. Yeah, I knew that it would draw attention that I really didnât want at school, but I figured a few hours of immature giggles were better than having to put on Mr. Rayâs jacket that smelled like old man. At least my suit fit. And it smelled like me, which smells like nothing. Not to mention, I didnât look too bad in it, though I must admit it always took me a few tries to get the tie right. The first two times it always ended up a tiny, little, jacked-up knot. Then I remember to loop it twice, and itâs good.
The second thing that was weird about the morning was mydad. I didnât come downstairs and find him with his forehead slammed against the kitchen table, drool oozing from his mouth like slime, which is definitely what I was expecting. Instead, I came downstairs to a clean kitchen. No glass, no blood stains on the floor, not even a whiff of leftover funk. My father stood at the stove sipping from his usual mug, the smell of burned coffee and almost-burned toast in the air. (He canât cook a lick. Canât even make toast!) His right handâthe cut oneâwas neatly bandaged and he held the coffee cup in his left, which was funny because heâs right-handed and was clearly having a hard time getting the mug to his lips. But that seemed to be the only thing he was having a hard time with.
âMorning, Matt,â he said, like nothing had happened a few hours before. Then he looked me up and down. âWhatâs with the suit?â
âDoing some work for Mr. Ray after school,â I explained, but for some reason I felt like it went in one ear and out the other. It was like he wanted to know why I had on the suit I wore to Momâs funeral, but he didnât really want to know. He also was standing at the sink, and didnât notice that the picture of us at the beach was gone. I had taken it to my room the night before.
He shrugged and went back to his toast and coffee.
âWant breakfast?â he said, plain.
I stood there for a second and examined him. He was in his raggedy gray sweatpants, his belly poking out as usual. This had become his uniform since he had decided to take some time off from fixing up housesâstripping floors, dry wall, the wholenine. Now his day job was pretending nothing was wrong. But he couldnât fool me. He wasnât okay.
âNaw, I donât want to be late,â I said, still feeling uncomfortable about last night and wanting to get out of Bizzaro World as fast as possible. Even school would be less strange than the kitchen I spent the last seventeen years in.
My father smirked. âHey, itâs your funeral.â Heâs said that line tons of times, but on this day it stung, and even pissed me off a little since I was literally just babysitting him a few hours before. I wanted to say back, and it was almost yours last night.
âYeah,â I said, throwing my backpack over my shoulder, suddenly wondering if I should go back on my promise to myself about not saying anything.
I turned toward the front door, but then he began
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