My dad called just as I was about to make a stop on my way home from work.
“Your Aunt’s ex-husband died about a week and a half ago.”
No surprise that I’m getting that news a little late. I never knew him and he wasn’t well loved by the family he left behind. His funeral notice failed to mention that he was survived by my aunt and their children.
“And the really bad news is that at the funeral your cousin Albert collapsed from a double aneurism.”
We weren’t close — I’ve spent nearly my entire life at least 1,000 miles away and he was about 14 years my senior — but he was family and I liked him. He was my gay New Yorker author cousin. I was a bit surprised that he went to the funeral, so far as I knew they’d never reconciled after he came out and I would imagine that it was not an easy decision for him to go.
“The doctors just declared him brain dead and they are going to pull the plug over the weekend.”
Whoa.
“Please stop smoking. There’s nothing worse than having to bury your kid.”
The stop I was making on the way home was to pick up some nicotine patches. For real.
Resisted the urge to tell him that some idiot Miami driver will take me out on my motorcycle long before smoking-related cancer or my inherited health risks have the chance to get me…
Albert, I pray that you will rest in peace, hope that you had the chance to make amends with your father, and wish that we’d had the chance to know each other better.
