Men at My Father's Funeral

Jeannette Beebout
“Men at My Father’s Funeral” Imitation

Total disbelief. Six days later, I
still couldn’t wrap my mind around what
happened. It made me absolutely sick.
If I were mistaken, I would blame the
sudden onset of nausea and
emotion on morning sickness. But it
isn’t possible. I was never able
to give him a grandchild, and
it hurt more than not being able
to have my own child.
My husband had to shake the hands
of the guests. I couldn’t bring myself
to do it. I didn’t want to eat, I
couldn’t sleep, and I sure as hell
wasn’t going to out a half-smile
on my face and press flesh with
those middle-aged men. I ached too
much, so I sat there, face burning from
the excessive salty saline solution
and raw under eyes. My eyes were so
swollen I had lived up to the Asian jokes
my sisters inflicted on me throughout
our childhood. I didn’t want to speak to
them, but that worked well because no one
did. I loved his heart, we were connected.
But I hated it because it attacked him.
I faced him the entire time I sat. If
it was the last time I see him, my back
will not be turned. He’s my dad, in
his body.