Looking at his casket, I made my choice. I stood and delivered the other eulogy.
"I read the obituary. He sounded like a great father. I wish I remembered that one.
Maybe, if they'd awarded his Pulitzer for drinking, being anger-prone and quick with his fists, I'd've understood..."
They didn't let me continue long.
Always prey to his own, he admired passion in others; in a strange way, I think he would've been proud of me.
Spent, I sat quietly later at home, looking at a dog-eared yellowing photograph of the three of us, taken in Spain somewhere: we're smiling, light bleeding an orange stripe that shines across our chests, and the snaking cable release connects me to his old Olympus.
His gift.
I let the tears come, longing to effortlessly shut them off with a press of my thumb.
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