Wildfire

"Your father was a damn fine man"…"Oh son, he was a good one"…"You take care son" I found it a bit annoying that at my fathers funeral I kept on being called son. What a load of shit. You hear tales of folks "coming out of the woodwork" when you win the lottery and I reckon to some souls a funeral is like winning the lottery. They awoke and thanked their good Lord for another day and found out that ole Angler down the street had passed away. "Well praise be the good Lord, it wasn’t me" They have images of the Lord scratching off that silly silver flake and just by chance ole Anglers name appeared before theirs. But the moment their boot laces get hung up on the gas pedal or the sandwich they chose didn’t come with mayo they curse that good Lord who just gambled with their little souls. So there’s father hiding in the box we picked out all those days ago and I’ve grown bitter and stale towards the soft hands swallowing my palms. I smell the beer on my uncles necks and I watch my sister pinch her leg in some sad attempt to cry. She hasn’t cried in years, dad knew and he wouldn’t mind her dry eyes but of course mother took offense to the lack of tear stains down her acne ridden cheeks. so there’s father sleeping in the box we picked out all those days ago and I’m gonna miss his hairless legs and the way he pointed at me when I farted at the table. "Son? do you need to go wipe" and if you’re the kind to say words of prayer, you mind saying one or two for me. I’d say thanks but my dad said thanks were used a little to often and man ought to really think about being thankful before spreading it out like wildfire.

wildfire. he said that’s what my mother tasted of. I kissed my mom while she slept once. I anticipated the world to set a blaze but all I felt was cracked lips and aim toothpaste. I reckon a father can only taste the flames on your mothers lips.

I love you.