A few days ago, I was given the task of writing a eulogy for Dad’s funeral, just so we’re totally prepared when the time comes. He made all the arrangements, himself, may long years ago. So, the eulogy is all that’s left. Yep. Just in case…
I texted my brother, who was chosen to say the words that will sum up my father’s life. He is the person who is left to convey to mourners and critics, alike, who my father truly was in this world. And the sonofabitch needs talking points, instead of what I’ve written. OK. Will do!
Around 3:43 this morning, it hit me…my brother needs talking points because he doesn’t know enough about my dad to fill a fucking thimble. He knows the bad things. God knows, the whole family knows every damn bad thing my dad ever did. The fact that my brother needs talking points to pay respects to his grandfather is a testament to how far his head is up his own ass.
I thought I was OK with this puppet show, but I’m not. Not at all. I may not even go to the funeral. Dad and I are square, as always. We said our goodbyes out on Mom’s back porch one day when he was lucid. It was one of the last times he remembered me. I love that old man more than I love myself and he’s taking my heart with him when it’s his time. I don’t want to watch the spectacle of him being eulogised by someone who doesn’t even know that Dad wasn’t given a middle name. He would always use the letter K in place of a name, when it was called for. When I was little, he’d tell me it stood for Kwana, (intentionally misspelled), Parker, the famous Camanche chief. Then, he’d spin a long tale about how that came to be. It was different every time…lol!
I suppose I should end this morning rant. Injustice upset and have no real say in changing things. I guess I should get those talking points ready so they can get lost in my brother’s briefcase. Yeah, Friday! Or….whatever.