“I need to make sure I sit where I can see his face at his mother’s funeral, because I ended up behind him at his sister’s funeral and I couldn’t see his expression.”
This was my thought as I placidly swept my kitchen this morning.
Housework gives me time to think, and when I have time to think, I inevitably go terrible, terrible places.
I’ve finally enclosed my absolute worst trait with words: I love seeing other people suffer that I feel “deserve” it. And I’m fucking ruthless.
You know whose face I want to see at his mother’s funeral? My father in law.
The man who refused to visit his sickly sister or answer her phone calls. The man who rolled his eyes and accused her of hypochondria with each new worrying diagnosis. The man who didn’t pack black clothing when she had a massive stroke and everyone gathered at the hospital to “be there” while they pulled the plug. The man who stood in the room and watched them power down the machines and walked out still wearing the expression of an irritated field foreman.
His mask never slipped. And nothing has changed.
His mother just turned 89 the other day. She’s diabetic with worsening Parkinson’s. A couple years ago, he told her she could no longer live in his house, and so she moved into a crumbling assisted living facility. Out of the way. He didn’t call her on her birthday. I crocheted her a blue scarf and visited her. My husband (her grandson) is her medical power of attorney, responsible for enforcing her Do Not Resuscitate order, because she knew she couldn’t ask her son.
A day will come when I’ll be dressing in black for her funeral.
And when we take a seat, I’ll need to make sure I sit where I can see his face, because I ended up behind him at his sister’s funeral and I couldn’t see his expression.