page7 (1/2)

Ironically, I have no trouble calling him that—Dad

Most people who’ve had the kind of relationship with hiether, preferring the distance of aformal, like Father But I’m not one for overly complicated emotional statements

He hat he was—the co-hearted son

Dohes was a man many feared He was brisk and frequently harsh, but he never saw it as a fault He spoke his ht be to the emotional or physical detriment of those around him

And yet, he was also very nearly omnipresent

I can’t recall a tia up for me both physically and financially, nostare lasering in on the ornately carved any casket

He was always there, all right—disapproving vocally of my hobbies, choices, and performance

Always fucking critical, that was my father

Still, I guess in so soo, shortly before my twenty-fifth birthday, from breast cancer, and he’s been the only family around ever since

Luckily for roup of family-like friends—one ood-for-theh, as much as I love them, I didn’t invite them here today

I know they would have been understanding, but sorief in solitude Especially when that grief looks nothing like the usual sort Like a wos aboutjust around the edges and in the cramp of my jaw

I lickthere If it weren’t for the soreness at its apex, I wouldn’t have even knoas clenching it