I'm
finally really mourning my
father. He's been gone
since 1994. There's a very
detailed and eloquent
passage in the book
I'm reading—the
conflicted daughter at her
dad's bedside a final
reconciliation—but
so not movie-of-the-week. I'm just sitting up in bed with this incipient anxiety, random exposure/paranoia Covid test result next 15 minutes, so then I guess it makes sense to be a bit
gloomy.
How bittersweet. But also
I've been aware for a
while that I'm
especially tender. A
familiar piece of music or
an unexpectedly raw scene
in an episode and I find
myself in tears.
It crosses my mind at
random moments that I do
not now, nor will I ever,
know how my father
actually experienced his
death. I didn't go to
the hospital; I made up an
excuse of having a cold,
yet every day I called the
nurses' station to check
on him. His partner was
there with him. So
there's that. And once
clear that it was near the
end, they sent him home
with her.
My older brother has
always exhibited a morbid
side, probably exacerbated
by his Vietnam War tour.
Like in '70, freshly
mustered out, he managed
to creep into a morgue and
steal a head and then boil
it in a kettle in his
backyard so that he could
examine the skull. Also
insisted until maybe 15
years ago that he wasn't a
"Veteran" since his MOS
was dental tech. Thank god
a friend from those days
talked to him.
He went over to Dad's
apartment and, as he
described it, sat there at
the bedside and just
maintained eye contact.
Even now I find that a leetle creepy. Couple of days of that and about 2:30 a.m. he called me to tell me the buffalo's gone.
So I drove over there on
the empty freeway with a
sense of dread. Their tiny
apartment was so still. It
was obvious that whoever
he was was gone. Touching
his chest and the odd
sensation of peace, no
normal response, no
heartbeat, no breath. The
slightly open mouth. My
brother asked me to take care of business.
I could do that.
Then he started going off
on taking a door off its
hinges and transporting
the body to wherever,
which hadn't even been
determined yet. We had to
calm him down. It was
pointed out the
impractibility of getting
a door through a door
frame flat, it was not
going to happen and we
were on the freaking
second floor with a bunch
of steps as well. I heard
myself giving my credit
card number to the guy on
the line at the Neptune
Society; nobody else
volunteered and I've
never been paid back.
Trying to remember where
my younger brother was
during all this and
I'd have to check with
him but I have the
impression that he
deliberately kept himself
away. Which is ironic
because he's the one
who just in the last
couple of months has been
all over the Ancestry
website with me filling
out our Jones family tree
as best we can. It's
almost like playing a
video game these days
especially if you have
provided your DNA and you
get a Verified goddamn 5th
cousin twice removed. Some
of them are coy and keep
it private, which is no
fun at all.
9th GGJan Garretson / Garritszen Van Vorst / Derhoff, 1632-1695
11th GG Hannah Fosdick, 1615-1681
14th GG Lady Isabell Dwarihouse, 1550-1624
10th GG Elizabeth Bridel-Bradle Dumminghan, 1595-1640 (my
favorite so far)
At 4am, two strangers show
up, do their job
respectfully and quietly
and leave with the body.
There are hugs and I go
back to my car. It's still
dark out. I have a moment
looking up at the stars,
remembering sensations:
being on the sidewalk,
holding onto my dad's
giant finger, the pant leg
of his suit flapping
against my elbow. I can
still feel it.
He and I are the same age.
My test is negative.
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