Its
happened to me twice now, I suppose. My father, under
various circumstances, informs me that he's just
died. The first time, I was called out of my
elementary school class, and I was
informed that my
grandfather had died. I was
young then, almost too
young to realize it. The second time, which occured just a few minutes ago, my
father opens the door and says the same thing, in different
words perhaps. This time it was my
uncle. He was an
obese man, but also one of the
sweetest soul's you'd ever meet. My
grandmother found him. Now that I'm
older, I can't say that I'm
old enough because I suppose I should have a
different reaction, but I don't. I sit here untouched, unaffected. I'm
sad but I can't
understand it yet. I'll
cry at the
funeral. I always
cry at the funeral. I don't cry for myself. I cry for the man I'll never know
better due to age and inexperience and
death. I cry for my grandmother, who has to watch her
husband and
son die before their
time. Atleast it was quick for
me.
More than
anything I realize that I have to
fear the moment when my
Mother comes home. I have to tell
her. She doesn't know yet. My
father went to find her but he won't. She'll come back here. I'll have to
become my father. I'll have to become the barer of
bad tidings. Until the day when I die, and my
son has to tell his
children that I'm
gone.