I buried Dad early last week leading to the weekend megabus to Toronto, which is a relief cause I resented him enough that I didn’t need an extra thing to curse him over.
There was already enough to navigate between the “fuck that guy” and the “he was still my dad and did at least do somewhere around the bare minimum”.
Though I managed to autopilot it and not showcase any upsetness beyond needing to even do the funeral (got over myself and let the family have their closure), I did decide to do the constructive thing and cry my eyeballs out at one point during the megabus trip, this between taping together the soundtrack mix CDs that were given out at the door. I figured “While I can” and not while I ask strangers where the hell Front street was [not in front].
I stare at the last picture of Dad pre-hospitalization until my tear glands go drought dry.
This conflicted hate has been exhausting. Cause for all my shit-talking, I still loved him enough, and he shouldn’t have gone just like that—not after all these months of near-fatal hospitalization then rehab; not when you’re leaving mom alone with me, cause I did not agree to be your permanent replacement of who she yells at of course mostly constructively. You were supposed to come home, start clean your room, then watch the world cup as planned. At least for that approximately one day you were back, you had finally quit drinking and smoking. Go figure.
People reading this who don’t know me well enough or who know me but were always suspicious might read this and confirm that I am indeed a piece of shit for prose-pawning off you like this, especially when I didn’t advocate for an obituary EITHER. But I wouldn’t be paying due respect to you if I remembered you as a saint. You’re not even reading this. I’m typing to a blank digital canvas.
I try to mourn yet reckon. And I’m dropping guilt cause I do believe I’m holistically trying my best, even when I falter and don’t live up to the kind of person with the kind of morality I wish to realize.
I’ve stared at the last picture of Dad pre-hospitalization until my tear glands went drought dry.
I stare at Gigi of who I now look forward to offering the bed.