You used to listen. I’d say a sentence, and you’d respond by agreeing with me or nodding your head. There was a smile when you disagreed. And now you just lie still. Holding a rosary. A can of Old Style at your side. Looking like you’re at peace. I thought. Are you? Are you at peace?

The line to see Robert Paul was short. Not many came. Relatives said it was too long of a drive while others sent flowers. 

Dad hated flowers. I told my sister. Mom planted daffodils and mums in autumn, while pop sat inside, waiting for dinner. He was never big on serving himself. Mom was always at his call. I laughed as organ music played.

Life goes quickly, my sister whispered.

Not quick enough, I responded. We both laughed.

The body was carried out by co-workers, a bunch of drunk carpenters, as Amazing Grace was played.

Goodbye, dad. I said. Goodbye. Cheers to you. I raised a flask. Took a drink. And stumbled behind the casket.