Wednesday, 30 July 2008

• My Eulogy

  My father passed away on Thursday, June 12th of this year. Three days later, my family celebrated Father's Day in complete silence. My parent's rather large house grew smaller by the hour, as relatives appeared by plane, train or automobile. They brought their condolences along with groceries, each bagged in suffocating plastic and according to human nature—food must be used as a device to displace grieving. My grief though ate away at my insides and compelled my knees to clatter together, quelling any desire for hunger as a man who cannot stand on his own can hardly recognize his appetite.
  
  I've yet to come to terms with his death. It was indeed unexpected, obtrusive and secretly wallowed in guilt. Stephen King says we all drink from a pool filled with guilty waters, and it's where I wade in the shallows, knowing that if I venture too far I'll be sure to drown.
  
  I loved and loathed my father in the same breath. Shall we discuss why? Shall I reiterate the damage of just one man that can't be undone? Below I've listed my litany ordeal of what has happened and the hurdles of healing.
  
  My mother didn't stop crying for a week; her children had to medicate her so she would sleep. In addition, her children took turns lying next to her as she wept inconsolably on her side of the bed. And that's where she stayed, for the most part. She kept my father's shirt, a gray polo possibly purchased at his favorite store the flea market, clutched in her hands or draped around her shoulders. Sometimes, in the storms of sorrow that would weather her dreams, she'll toss and turn and the shirt would cover her face. I'd quietly move it and tuck it neatly under her arm. Everything has a place, a purpose, a perpetual motion; my father's shirt remained as a moot point that he was still around, if only by smell.
  
  The funeral director gave the option of preparing eulogies to be read on the day of the cremation. Only my elder sister and I agreed. My other siblings, the eldest sister and brother said little, did little, lived little in the still and stubborn days that followed. The impact of losing their father turned them inward, seeking solace from their heartache and how awful it was to watch their skin crawl when they realized they'd been secretly hoping for his death.
  
  I'm tired now. I was going to post the eulogy here and finish this. Next time, I suppose? I suppose if there will be a next time. I don't write anymore, though I know I should.
  
  The night I won in Seattle, two days before his death, I dreamt he was talking to me, the way a father would if he wasn't so wayward with his weaknesses. The next night in Fresno I saw him in the critical care unit, bleeding from his shattered skull and covered in tubes that obviously were meant to take his soul in liquid form. In the hospital room, I dreamt he sat next to me and smiled. A week later after winning in San Francisco, I had another dream and another day with my dad. Are you proud of me? Don't you know I'm a fucking winner? Don't you know people vie to be in my family just to be near me? Don't you know I won in San Diego two weeks ago and cried in my room, wondering if being a winner wouldn't make me feel like such a loser?
  
  I'm tired, more tired than previously stated. I'm going to go dream again and ask my dad if he wants to hear my eulogy one more time.
  
  Dat

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