My dad

So, my father died last month.

He died alone in a hospital bed with no one who knew him nearby to mark his passing. My sister found out a few hours later, and then called me.

It's hard, even now, not to shout at someone complaining about something. I have to restrain myself from screaming, "How the fuck is that important when my father is dead? Huh?"

I don't, because they don't know and it's not their fault. Maybe I should, but it won't change anything and I doubt it would make me feel better.

I loved my father, even though he was a drunk. It's what killed him, really. He died because his body couldn't handle the withdrawal this time.

I think the saddest part is that my life won't change very much at all. He hadn't sent me even a card for any holiday or birthday for years, and never offered anything more than a vague promise to come and visit next year, "when he had more money." He was never much in my life, and these last years nothing more than a voice on a phone. Toward the end, I was calling him every week to talk to him. Mostly I got his answering machine.

I don't recommend having an answering machine for a father. Sure, they're great listeners but they don't teach you how to shave, change a tire, or take a punch.

I love my father, and I wish he could have stopped drinking. I wish that he loved me more than he loved gin. But he didn't. I think it would have been very wonderful to have him in my life.

But now I'll never know.