My dad would give this post thumbs up. If he weren't so dead all the damn time.

I got a lot of phone calls and texts yesterday asking me if I was doing alright, seeing as how yesterday was Father's Day and my dad is all dead n' shit. I don't really remember celebrating Father's Day while he was alive, except for this one time as a present I massaged his head until he fell asleep and then drew a kitty-cat on the side of his face and neck using a Sharpie. I don't know what the big deal was, he was retired by that point so it's not like he had to go anywhere except for the grocery store, plus he looked totally badass with his new pretty kitty face tattoo. And, you know how it is, you gotta keep yourself entertained somehow when you're home from college for the summer, am I right?

If someone doesn't want you to draw on their face with a Sharpie, they should say Don't Draw On My Face With A Sharpie. That's just basic communication. But all he said before he dozed off that time was "No haircuts," on account of the haircut I had given him years before which he didn't like very much, I guess because he was pretty vain about his sideburns and wanting to keep them. 

So yesterday wasn't bad at all, actually. I had fun making people feel awkward by reminding them about my dad being dead. 

Friend 1: I need to call my dad to wish him Happy Father's Day.

Me: How does it feel to have a dad that's not all burned to ashes? That must feel good. I wouldn't know much about that. *sigh*

Friend 2: I'm taking my dad out to lunch today.

Me: My dad loved lunch, back when he wasn't dead. He loved steak sandwiches. This was a long time ago though, before he was a box of ash.

Friend 3: Is today hard for you? Are you doing alright?

Me: Yeah, well. It's not like it used to be. Like, he used to give the best hugs, but since he was cremated it's not the same. That urn is not warm at all. Sometimes I can hear the larger bone fragments rattling around in there, so there's that. That's kind of like I Love You, right? 

Ah, well. I think I would have made him laugh, anyways. 

People are way too serious about death. It hurts, it's unfair, it's scary as hell, it's bullshit, all that's true. But sometimes the only way to get through it is to recognize the ridiculous in the horrible. Because what will it all matter in a hundred years. Because life is silly. Because we're all just temporary. And because what else can you do.

The morning he died, we all gathered and cried and ate. I cut into a tray of lasagna that someone had brought over, and as I lifted the slice onto my plate, the whole thing slipped apart the way hot lasagna will do sometimes, cheese sliding off noodles into a big glop on my plate. 

"Great." I said, holding my arms rigid at my side in mock-exasperation. 

"Just great. First dad dies, now THIS!" And I tossed the spatula onto the counter and threw my hands up in defeat.

My sister brings this moment up from time to time. It was the moment we all started breathing again, when it seemed like everything was beginning to return to normal, after weeks of whispered concerns and grim prognoses. And somehow we laughed until we ached, and we knew he'd be happy that we did.

So yeah, Father's Day was great. 

Other than the fact that I'm half-Orphan, but I'm glad you all enjoyed yourselves. No, don't worry about me, me and my cold box of ash are very happy. It's fine, really. I ask him for fatherly advice and he says "Swish, rattle rattle, *ash plume*, (silence)," which probably means carpe diem or follow your heart or something, I'm sure.