Father’s Day
The last thing my father said to me was actually the only full sentence he said to me during my visit that spring. He had uttered an occasional yes or no in response to direct questions, but he had never initiated a conversation. That afternoon, he was lying in the hospital bed, and I was bending over him rubbing moisturizer into his hands. My long hair – you look like Cousin It, he used to say to me – fell in front of my face. I swept it back over my ear and smiled at him. His eyes were focused, and I knew he was going to say something. “You’ve got gray hair,” he said to me. “Do something about it.”
That’s the last thing I ever heard from my father. The bastard. I miss him.