My dad stands at the stove with the specific expression of a man confronting his own limitations in real time.
Cassian takes over without being asked.
Which is how we end up with scrambled eggs that are at least technically edible and toast that is only slightly on fire.
• • •
We eat at the kitchen table.
The three of us.
Her chair empty.
We laugh sometimes.
We cry sometimes.
We tell stories about her — my dad starting them, me finishing them, Cassian filling in the parts we’d forgotten.
• • •
I watch my dad’s face when Cassian talks about her.
The way it opens up.
The way having him here reminds my dad that she had room for everyone.
That she built a life so full of love it spilled over into the boy next door.
He belongs here.
He always did.
After — the chores start.
Because apparently when someone dies they leave you with an enormous amount of shit to do, which feels like a final joke from the universe.
One last thing to get through.
Funeral arrangements. A wake. A service.
Flowers.
Someone has to decide about the flowers.
• • •
My dad sits at the kitchen table with a legal pad and a phone and the specific face of a man who is functioning because he has to.
Going through the motions and what is expected from him with a mind-numbing emptiness.
I should stay.
I should sit beside him and help him make these calls and be the son he needs me to be.
I know that.
I just — can’t.
