The Funeral

My dad died on May 14, 2007.

The 134th day of the year. 

A Monday.

The call came in the afternoon. My brother.

"I've got sad news, Stace. Dad died today."

I was standing at the bottom of the staircase. Speechless, sort of.

"Son of a bitch."

"I know. But at least we've got closure. It's not what we wanted but at least we don't have to wonder anymore."

It was true. We didn't have to wonder anymore. Wonder when he'd actually call. Wonder when he'd wake up and realize that he'd abandoned his kids. Three of them.

The service was on Friday. Good thing we were all available. Jesus. Funeral planned without his own children involved. Shitty. But not surprising. The step mother comfortably sits at the right hand of Satan. It's not even too warm for her.

And so we did what our mother taught us. We were good citizens. We sent flowers in advance. Showed up in suits, looking like we'd stepped out of a Nordstrom catalog.

It felt like us against the world. Three of us, plus three spouses. A team of six. Heading into a disaster.

Stopped at Starbucks a couple blocks away. Ordered my usual mocha. Wished it was a whiskey with a beer back. 

Turned around and ran into our aunt and uncle. Thank God! Our only relatives on that side. My grandmothers brother. He's filled in a big role in my life. He taught me to ski as a teenager and rollerblade as a twenty-something. He danced with me at my wedding and he makes me laugh. Really hard. 

He's buried his sister, his brother-in-law and his brother. And now he's there to bury his nephew. He's proof that a life well lived isn't necessarily fair.

Our team of six jumped to a team of eight.

It's odd. When you're the stranger. The front row is a hard place to be when you know that the 40 or so people behind you have no idea who you are.

And so the service started. The obituary read by the funeral guy. Preacher maybe. Not sure. Might have just been the owner of the funeral parlor. No idea. The information was wrong anyway for the 10 years or so that he was married to our mother. Oh well. Let that go.

Funeral guy gave us each a task. Think of one word that reminds us of Phil. Our father. Half our DNA. 

Shit, he's going to ask us for our words.

So, I tried to think of an innocuous word. Think. Think. Think. Really wishing I'd had that whiskey.

Funny! That's it. My dad was funny. Really funny. 

True. 

Safe. 

And then my brother leaned over and whispered, knowing my favorite word, he asked, "Is your word, fucker?"

"No! Although that's true. My word is funny."

"My word is absent."

Although fitting, it didn't seem appropriate. 

For a funeral. 

Fortunately we weren't called on.