Neandertals Did This, Too
By
James Robert Smith
My
father-in-law is
dead
Frank,
dead.
I know it isn’t
generally
supposed to be
that way,
but,
he was my friend.
On visits to
her parents’
home,
my wife would have to pry me
out
because of the long
conversations.
Frank
was a great guy. He
should have run
for office.
At the memorial
service I
am pissed off.
I am still
angry
with Frank.
For dying, for leaving
us.
He killed himself,
to my way of
thinking.
Cigarettes killed him.
I’ve never known
anyone
as addicted to that
stuff
as Frank was. I’m angry because
he robbed us
of his company,
his conversation,
his laugh,
his voice,
his father’s way
with love.
So.
I stand in the funeral home
and the people are there
in
freaking
droves.
More than one
thousand.
I kid you
not.
He should have run for
office, before it was
too
late.
No more plans to drive
his truck and trailer out
west. No more
plans for me
my wife
my son
to fly out and meet them in
Seattle
and travel up
the Al-Can
Highway to Denali.
Dreams die, too.
I’m pissed off.
With Frank.
With everyone.
The whole process of
memorial service
and funeral
pisses
me
off.
How stupid.
How much money has
his wife spent on
this dark shindig?
I’m full of myself.
I’m full of contempt for
everyone there.
Stupid apes,
I think.
His only son,
my wife’s brother,
approaches Frank’s casket
where
Frank lies pasty and white
and dead.
What is Ed
doing?
This yokel? This welder?
This wanna-be cowboy?
This womanizer?
This hellion?
This party animal?
This divorced jerk?
What is he doing?
He leans over the
casket.
I drift over.
To see.
Ed slips a
hunting magazine
into the casket
with Frank. Field & Stream,
Frank’s favorite.
And Ed puts a snapshot
of himself,
a small color
photo
into the pocket of the
coat
Frank wears.
I freeze.
The anger flows out
of me.
Back at
myself.
I feel
small.
And stupid.
And selfish.
And
alone.
It is all I can do
not to burst into
insane
laughter.
This man,
this son,
has shamed me
with this primitive,
touching
act of love.
By
James Robert Smith
My
father-in-law is
dead
Frank,
dead.
I know it isn’t
generally
supposed to be
that way,
but,
he was my friend.
On visits to
her parents’
home,
my wife would have to pry me
out
because of the long
conversations.
Frank
was a great guy. He
should have run
for office.
At the memorial
service I
am pissed off.
I am still
angry
with Frank.
For dying, for leaving
us.
He killed himself,
to my way of
thinking.
Cigarettes killed him.
I’ve never known
anyone
as addicted to that
stuff
as Frank was. I’m angry because
he robbed us
of his company,
his conversation,
his laugh,
his voice,
his father’s way
with love.
So.
I stand in the funeral home
and the people are there
in
freaking
droves.
More than one
thousand.
I kid you
not.
He should have run for
office, before it was
too
late.
No more plans to drive
his truck and trailer out
west. No more
plans for me
my wife
my son
to fly out and meet them in
Seattle
and travel up
the Al-Can
Highway to Denali.
Dreams die, too.
I’m pissed off.
With Frank.
With everyone.
The whole process of
memorial service
and funeral
pisses
me
off.
How stupid.
How much money has
his wife spent on
this dark shindig?
I’m full of myself.
I’m full of contempt for
everyone there.
Stupid apes,
I think.
His only son,
my wife’s brother,
approaches Frank’s casket
where
Frank lies pasty and white
and dead.
What is Ed
doing?
This yokel? This welder?
This wanna-be cowboy?
This womanizer?
This hellion?
This party animal?
This divorced jerk?
What is he doing?
He leans over the
casket.
I drift over.
To see.
Ed slips a
hunting magazine
into the casket
with Frank. Field & Stream,
Frank’s favorite.
And Ed puts a snapshot
of himself,
a small color
photo
into the pocket of the
coat
Frank wears.
I freeze.
The anger flows out
of me.
Back at
myself.
I feel
small.
And stupid.
And selfish.
And
alone.
It is all I can do
not to burst into
insane
laughter.
This man,
this son,
has shamed me
with this primitive,
touching
act of love.
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