I've had a rough year. The family land was sold to developers to settle my grandmother's estate and pay off the out of town heirs. (She died six years ago.)
It felt like the entire town was unhappy about it. There were articles in the paper every other week mentioning it and erroneously reporting that my parents owned it and sold it and made tens of millions of dollars on the deal. People wrote all sorts of letters to the editor. My brother's truck had the name of where we lived painted across the side of it and people noticed it more and would harrass him in the street outside of bars. Vandals (who claimed to be guerrilla artists) spray painted deragotory things on the sign at the end of our driveway.
I moved out of my parents house in March. I was twenty four. It was past time I moved out. I moved in with a couple of strangers I found on a roommate matching site who turned out to be Republicans, but nice guys. And quiet, so I couldn't really ask for more.
My dad had gotten meaner and meaner in the last year and a half. A lot of it was because he was constantly in pain and didn't like talking about it. He went into the hospital at the end of July. He died a month ago.
I got the news at work. When I showed up at the house my mom told me I had to write the obituary and plan the funeral service. The people from the funeral home showed up half an hour later. I didn't realize how fast an obituary gets written. It has to be written the same day and sent in by four o'clock to get into the paper the next day. I'd written three drafts and had just finished the last when they showed up, read it and left with it.
My dad was cremated and buried in the front yard. All nine of my mom's siblings showed up for the funeral. My half brother and sister and their spouses and children and my two brothers and two sisters came. We took up the first five pews.
I think that since he was in the hospital for two months, it didn't really hit me that he was actually dead. I cried when I got the news. And I saw the ashes, but it was all very surreal. It felt like he was just taking a nap somewhere and would wake up and come to the party we threw for him. It was on my brother's birthday. My mom decided the funeral should be on my brother's birthday. (Which I thought was a little more than fucked up, but he said he was ok with it, even though I really don't think he was.)
When everyone had gone home my mom went to the beach and my brother went to Richmond and I was left alone for a week. I guess that's when it hit me. When I went to the house to get the mail and feed the dogs and there was dad in the front yard, six feet down, covered in flowers, but actually, no, I take that back, it wasn't looking at the grave that did it. His picture was published in the paper along with an article about his death (not because it was a freak accident or anything... he was just sort of infamous in our town) and I read it at work and just stared at that stock photo they had and thought, he's still alive in that picture, but he's dead now.
I am not good at sharing or showing emotion. When I cry it's in my car at night parked in front of my apartment. Or in my room under the covers. Or curled up on the bathroom floor behind a locked door. So I made a lot of jokes in the weeks after he died. And got stand offish when people wanted to share their condolences. I don't know how to deal with death any less awkwardly than anyone who feels like they should say something to be consoling. No one ever knows what to say (on either side of that equation).
My mom had me go out and burn all the codolence cards the morning after the wake. There'd been a huge bonfire and it was still smoldering. One of the ones on top of the pile as it burned said, "I hope you get well soon."
9:40 a.m. - 2006-10-08
Recent entries:
A Small Mountain of Perishables - 2010-10-04
Update - 2010-08-04
I moved closer to town. - 2007-07-26
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If it's this hard to pick a dress, I'd hate to think about buying a house. - 2007-06-28
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