16
Cheesy frilly silk pillows prop Father’s head in place, the pancake makeup insufficient to conceal an apocalypse of busted veins. Morticians can only do so much, but Father looks like they barely tried. Maybe Father had feuded with the mortician, like he had with half the town. At least they didn’t put Father in a suit—a tie around his quadruple chin would have been a sick joke. He’s in his tattered, beloved Black Sabbath tour T-shirt, hands folded on top of his potbelly. There’s way too much powder on his face, his hands, everywhere. The shroud is pulled up a little more above the waist than you’d usually see, probably because that tormented shirt can’t really cover his bellybutton.
Standing by the coffin, my shoulders tremble.
I don’t know how many times Dad spanked me. Slapped me.
