Personal Narrative: My Father's Funeral Home

My dad was dying from cancer. Lung cancer, to be exact. We found out six months ago. He was a brilliant man, sad and bald from the chemo, but still fighting. Marcus Wayne was a survivor. Or at least until he was admitted in the hospital again. The hospital with horrible guest chairs. My back was pushed up against the uncomfortable, firm cushion of the hospital chair. With my glasses perched upon my nose, I was reading to my father aloud. He was sitting quietly, and I try my hardest to keep reading, even in my position. My hands were cramped, and my butt hurts from being squished. I have to read to him, it's a tradition. Ever since second grade, my dad and I always chose books to read together. My dad set off my passion for writing.

"Ivory pushed

He approached a couple of seconds later. “Marcus’s body is being transported to a funeral home. I suggest you both get some rest. I’m sorry for you loss.”

Sorry for your loss. I was not ‘sorry for my loss’. I was angry. Why couldn’t you save him? I wanted to scream at him. A sorry doesn’t make anything better when someone just died. A sorry doesn’t bring them back to life. It doesn’t make up for the fact that my dad’s lifeless body is about to be pumped with formaldehyde and sent to a funeral home.

When we got home it was around six. It was still early, but sleeping was easier than dealing with the loss. As I was about to crawl into bed, I heard the crack of the floorboards. At the frame of my door, I saw my mom fragilely peeping through.

“Can I sleep with you?” She asked, her eyes shining not with joy, but with tears. The wrinkles on her face seemed to be turning downward, even her smile lines distraught. I was afraid that if I tried to open my mouth I’d start crying, so I simply nodded my head. As we both lay in the bed, I thought about how hard it must be for mom. To know that her bed will always feel empty. One day she’ll have to sleep in her own bed, half the space filled with sorrow instead of her