My dad died, and all I can remember about him are embarrassing moments.
I’m supposed to deliver a speech at his funeral, but I kept thinking about the times he walked in on me doing anything private, or the times I walked in on him. I can recall the time he came home drunk and passed out on the couch after having shat himself. I can remember when he walked into the kitchen naked while I had my friends over. I remember him singing Britney Spears nonstop on a road trip. And confronting me about my web history. Teaching me about contraception. Loudly moaning during intimate moments with my mom in the next room over.
And it made me laugh. Here, at his funeral. I tried to keep it suppressed, but my shoulders were shaking and my fiancé was shushing me. Every relative and friend delivering their few words spoke about how noble he was, how intelligent, and all I pictured was him getting out of the casket and mooning everyone. Just a big-ass joke. A big ass joke.
I guffawed, drawing the eyes of the crowd. Uncle Jeb nervously glanced at me as he spoke about Dad’s early years.
“Will,” my fiancé said.
I held my palm to my mouth and kept everything inside. Uncle Jeb went on. A few feet from the casket, two dogs were fucking. People pretended not to notice. Forget rain–pathetic fallacy is two dogs fucking at a funeral. I lost it again.
But I was the son. No one would ask me to leave.
It was my turn to the deliver the speech, and all I could say, again and again, was HA.
Today’s three prompt categories were, “The moon,” “Embarrassing moment with Dad,” and “Death.”
Funerals are surreal in so many ways. Laughter is just as inappropriate as everything else.