synesthetick...

There are many things you won’t know about your dad’s funeral until you’re there. There will be balloons forgotten on the floor, tables of food no one has an appetite for. Every cake on a plate chosen weeks before, while you wait in a parlour for the autopsy report. Getting in the car is the final stop, he’s already ashes in a ribboned box. His sister tells a story which spurs a few more, and he’s so present you don’t remember he’s gone. A hundred questions asked of you, a dozen knowing looks, later all you remember is the smell of the wood. Rounds of drinks climb high among friends, and late that evening the funeral will end. His death will not. Everyone drives home and you’re left on your own. The house is quiet.