My sisters, their husbands and I are given an hour to say our good-byes to a man that none of us really knew, but stood by because in the end we’re all that’s left. A waxy, heavily made-up figure lying horizontal in a wooden box with his hands folded perfectly over his waist. I can’t even tell if he resembles himself, as I don’t know him. Wearing a suit that was pulled from his closet in an attempt to appear presentable, although I remember little about him, I know that in life he was rarely presentable. Drunk and belligerent, coupled with the cocaine withdrawal tended to lead him down a path of hiding and seeking more. A continuous cycle. And when we were finally presented with the preliminary autopsy results none of it’s shocking. My father died of cirrhosis of the liver, the same disease that claimed the life of his own father many years before. When the question was posed regarding a more thorough autopsy the response was unanimous. No need. The hospitality room is set with large trays of pinwheel sandwiches and platters of cookies, carafes of coffee permeating the small room with its overwhelming aroma.
