I thought of my father today. I haven't done that in a bit. I was thinking about his life, his death, and how I buried him. I also thought abut the livejournal entry that I posted about it when it happened last year . I am going to put it again here. It helps to think of some things in my life as stories, as things I am not in. Here you go.
Im going to paint a picture for you of my evening tonight. It may disturb you so take care when reading further.
We are in a rectangular beige room with red carpet. Low lights illuminate the room in a way that is bright, but not harsh. Couches and chairs line three of the walls. A gray casket sits against a fourth wall. Flowers of white, red, and blue adorn the casket and surround it.
In the casket lays the thin body of an elderly man whos face would probably remind you of at least ten people you may know or have seen in your life. His lips have been painted a dull pink. His cheeks and face have a small layer of foundation. His thin black hair is combed back from his temple. His eyelids are closed and you know that under them lies a pair of steel blue eyes now made useless. The man is wearing blue pants and a striped blue gray shirt. His tiny withered hands are clutched together across his lap.
The man has had many visitors tonight. Many were family, many were friends. They all spoke of the man when he was younger. They all made statements such as He was a great man. He would give you the shirt off his back, or I grew up with him and he was always a handful. We used to play on the farm everyday, or Its unbelievable how many friends he had. He knew everybody.
Only one person remains in the room now. The rest have all went home to their families. The remaining person is a thin man sitting in a chair near the head of the casket. He is a fairly young man in his 20s by the look of him. His lips are a vibrant pink against his pale face. He has no wrinkles but the beginning of laugh lines. Light blue eyes peer out from behind razor thin glasses. They are set back behind arched eyebrows. The mans hair curls around his ears, the back of his neck, and almost hang low enough to curl into his glasses. Hes wearing a dark blue shirt open at the throat, black shoes and belt, and khaki pants. His legs are crossed at the knees. He is resting his head on his left hand. His right hand rest upon the arm of the blue chair he is sitting in.
This man could be attractive, beautiful to some even if he were somewhere else besides this room. We would like to talk to this man, but we are scared of the look on his face. It is a deep look made of determination, curiosity, and grief. The mans eyebrows are furrowed and his lips are pressed into a small line. He is staring at the man in the casket in deep concentration. After looking at the two for a bit we can see a resemblance in the mouth and the eyebrows. If the man in the caskets eyes were open, we would see the two men have matching eyes. They are not open though. The men look so close they have to be father and son.
The son has been greeting guests and listening to stories from people all night who told him of a different dad than he had ever known, a dad he wished he had known. Now the young man sits alone pondering his fathers existence and the legacy he has left behind. The young man buries himself under guilt and grief.
We do not want to be in this room, it makes us feel awful to be in this room, but we cannot leave it. It is a beautiful scene, yet haunting in its quiet dignity.
The young man breaks from his thoughts and looks up. He looks from his father to the rest of the room. It is finally empty now. The young man folds his hands together in his lap, breathes a sigh, sits for a minute and then stands up. It is time to do what he has been avoiding. It is time to pay his finals respects to his father.
After a few steps the man stands next to the casket and looks at his fathers face. It is not a father he recognizes. Both aging, sickness, and extreme weight loss has made the father look very similar to the fathers picture as a youth. For a reason unknown to the son, he reaches in the casket and folds his hand around his fathers. It is very cold and small.
Tears begin to swell up in the sons eyes. The son is trying to control it, but he cant. A single tears rolls its way out of the sons right eye. Half the tear lands against the sons glasses and the other half rolls down his right cheek. It disturbs him, this lack of self-control, but he can do nothing about it. He tries to speak to the man in the casket and at first, nothing comes out but a dry sound. The man closes his eyes, composes himself, swallows and tries again. This time he can speak, albeit slow and quiet. He starts to talk.
We leave them together for their last real conversation. It would be wrong for us to eavesdrop. As we leave the room, we see a guest book filled now with many names. We see the fathers name in gold letters across a red background on the cover of the book. As we leave we see nothing else but flowers.
Im going to paint a picture for you of my evening tonight. It may disturb you so take care when reading further.
We are in a rectangular beige room with red carpet. Low lights illuminate the room in a way that is bright, but not harsh. Couches and chairs line three of the walls. A gray casket sits against a fourth wall. Flowers of white, red, and blue adorn the casket and surround it.
In the casket lays the thin body of an elderly man whos face would probably remind you of at least ten people you may know or have seen in your life. His lips have been painted a dull pink. His cheeks and face have a small layer of foundation. His thin black hair is combed back from his temple. His eyelids are closed and you know that under them lies a pair of steel blue eyes now made useless. The man is wearing blue pants and a striped blue gray shirt. His tiny withered hands are clutched together across his lap.
The man has had many visitors tonight. Many were family, many were friends. They all spoke of the man when he was younger. They all made statements such as He was a great man. He would give you the shirt off his back, or I grew up with him and he was always a handful. We used to play on the farm everyday, or Its unbelievable how many friends he had. He knew everybody.
Only one person remains in the room now. The rest have all went home to their families. The remaining person is a thin man sitting in a chair near the head of the casket. He is a fairly young man in his 20s by the look of him. His lips are a vibrant pink against his pale face. He has no wrinkles but the beginning of laugh lines. Light blue eyes peer out from behind razor thin glasses. They are set back behind arched eyebrows. The mans hair curls around his ears, the back of his neck, and almost hang low enough to curl into his glasses. Hes wearing a dark blue shirt open at the throat, black shoes and belt, and khaki pants. His legs are crossed at the knees. He is resting his head on his left hand. His right hand rest upon the arm of the blue chair he is sitting in.
This man could be attractive, beautiful to some even if he were somewhere else besides this room. We would like to talk to this man, but we are scared of the look on his face. It is a deep look made of determination, curiosity, and grief. The mans eyebrows are furrowed and his lips are pressed into a small line. He is staring at the man in the casket in deep concentration. After looking at the two for a bit we can see a resemblance in the mouth and the eyebrows. If the man in the caskets eyes were open, we would see the two men have matching eyes. They are not open though. The men look so close they have to be father and son.
The son has been greeting guests and listening to stories from people all night who told him of a different dad than he had ever known, a dad he wished he had known. Now the young man sits alone pondering his fathers existence and the legacy he has left behind. The young man buries himself under guilt and grief.
We do not want to be in this room, it makes us feel awful to be in this room, but we cannot leave it. It is a beautiful scene, yet haunting in its quiet dignity.
The young man breaks from his thoughts and looks up. He looks from his father to the rest of the room. It is finally empty now. The young man folds his hands together in his lap, breathes a sigh, sits for a minute and then stands up. It is time to do what he has been avoiding. It is time to pay his finals respects to his father.
After a few steps the man stands next to the casket and looks at his fathers face. It is not a father he recognizes. Both aging, sickness, and extreme weight loss has made the father look very similar to the fathers picture as a youth. For a reason unknown to the son, he reaches in the casket and folds his hand around his fathers. It is very cold and small.
Tears begin to swell up in the sons eyes. The son is trying to control it, but he cant. A single tears rolls its way out of the sons right eye. Half the tear lands against the sons glasses and the other half rolls down his right cheek. It disturbs him, this lack of self-control, but he can do nothing about it. He tries to speak to the man in the casket and at first, nothing comes out but a dry sound. The man closes his eyes, composes himself, swallows and tries again. This time he can speak, albeit slow and quiet. He starts to talk.
We leave them together for their last real conversation. It would be wrong for us to eavesdrop. As we leave the room, we see a guest book filled now with many names. We see the fathers name in gold letters across a red background on the cover of the book. As we leave we see nothing else but flowers.
snyper:
::hugs::
dp50000000:
I dig hugs. Thanks bunches. How are you by the way?