Obituary

"If David won't do it, then I suppose I don't have a choice. Alright, yes, I'll speak the obituary. Have a good night, Sally. Thank you. I love you too."

Gary Franklin hit the big red button on his phone as he stared blankly at the screen. He didn't notice when it turned dark. He was thinking anxiously about delivering his father's obituary at his funeral in three days' time. Initially, his older brother David had assumed that responsibility, but now he had apparently backed out, which left the task to Gary.

'Always me. I'm always the one left with the messy stuff.' In truth, it made sense for Gary to do the speech, and he knew it. He was the author and public speaker of the family, yet he felt now like he had never delivered a speech in his entire life. He certainly had never delivered an obituary.

'How do you say good morning to a crowd during a funeral? It won't be a good morning. It will be dark and stormy like the rest of this week. Everyone will be grieving- and I have to deliver a speech. I have to work during my father's funeral.'

Gary scoffed contemptuously at the notion. He sat and remembered his father reading The Hobbit to him as a child. In his mind he could see himself nestled under his blue blanket against the strong chest of his father. He could feel his coarse stubble scratching against the top of his own small head. What was it the wizard, Gandalf, had quipped about good mornings to Bilbo?

'"Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel good on this morning; or that it is a morning to be good on?"

"All of them at once!"' The character had returned.

Gary released a soft chuckle then noticed he was still looking at his blank phone screen. He lightly pressed it. Light shone through the numbers: 7:49 A.M. Sally had called him at 7:30. He angrily cursed at himself, "Some morning this is!" as he approached his Keurig to brew his morning coffee.

Instinctively, he grabbed his favorite flavor package, Hazelnut Mocha, and inserted it into the machine, set his phone down, and selected: 'brew 12oz'. The coffee began pouring out rhythmically: drip, drip, drip.

The smell of it showed him a picture of a tall, sturdy man hunched over a thickly dense laptop typing away and gulping loudly from an orange mug plastered with the lettering: 'Orange you glad I'm your dad?'. Drip, drip, drip.

The man with the mug turned towards Gary, smiled and said, "You're a little young for coffee, Frank Tank. Maybe when you're older." He reared his head back and mockingly took another swig but then choked and sputtered out the dark liquid all over the computer. There was a shrill- pop! -and the screen went dark. "Dag-nab-it! I was so close to finishing that chapter." His dad yelled angrily, then simultaneously burst into laughter as he looked back at Frank Tank- Gary jeering at him from the Keurig.

Gary laughed audibly as he reached to grab his own cup of Hazelnut Mocha coffee. "Yaaaoow!" Gary exclaimed as hot coffee ambushed his hand from the dark, steaming waterfall. He looked away from his dad and discovered he had foolishly inserted his phone into the mug slot, leaving both his hand and phone vulnerable to the attacking heat.

He quickly disabled the Keurig, grabbed a dish towel from a nearby rack, and recovered his phone and dried it, while also rubbing his sore hand. He eyed the coffee machine like it was a traitor who had committed treason against its king.

He looked back where the man with the orange mug had been sitting. The seat was altogether empty with no orange mug in sight, nor was there any full mug for Gary, himself, to enjoy.

Once the throbbing in his hand ended, Gary examined his phone for water damage. He was pleasantly surprised to see that it had sustained no injuries, save a wounded pride. His phone survived.

'I should phone Phil and let him know I've got to work on dad's obituary.'

Gary dialed the numbers. 'Has the ringing always been this loud?' He thought. He shifted nervously. He wondered also why the phone companies had updated the ring time to chime for hours. He looked at the screen. It had been seven seconds-'How has it only bee-'

"Hey, Gary."

His friend's voice echoed like a dropped conversation in a cave. "Gary?"

"Hey, Phil, it's good to hear your voice!" He lied.

"I'm sorry brother. Everyone loved your dad. He was a great guy."

"Yeah," said Gary, then deflected, "Hey I promise I haven't been avoiding you, but I have to cancel lunch. I'm sorry."

"How come? You really want to be alone in that old house? I can come over and bring take-out. I don't mind, but I haven't seen you since- well-."

Gary flinched quietly and interjected, "It's not that. I'd love to see you, but I have to write dad's obituary for Saturday."

"I thought David was handling that."

"He backed out, and I couldn't ask Sally or Mom to do it. You know how they are right now. I've got to write it."

"Well, you are the writer of that family. I'm sorry man, I know that will be hard. Let me bring lunch over to you. You shouldn't be alone."

"No, no. Thanks. I need to focus. I've never written an obituary, and I need to do it well. My perfectionism never sleeps."

"Alright, I understand, but call me if you need me. I'm one fifteen-minute drive away. How are you sleeping?"

"I'm, um, I'm sleeping. Listen, it's already 8:20. I've got to start this thing, or I never will. See you on Saturday, Phil."

Gary heard a sigh then, "See you on Saturday, Gary."

There was a pause and Gary reached to hang up, but Phil spoke again with a spot of hesitation. The type of hesitation that interrupts speech when someone is withholding tears.

"Gary?"

The air hung stiff and still and sat like a cobweb in the upper corner of a barn.

"Yeah Phil?" He replied apprehensively.

"I love you. Your dad loves you too."

Gary recoiled. His spiderweb had been slashed, and he pressed the red button again to silence his friend before another attack could be made. Gary stayed silent and cold as if living death embodied him. Indeed, his face contained such a lack of expression that if he had been dead in a casket no one could see the difference. Save his eyes that darted to his office where he began to walk.

He briefly stopped to make another cup of coffee. He remembered the mug this time and grabbed an orange one from the shelf. Then he inserted another Hazelnut Mocha package. He planned to forgive the earlier treason of his Keurig. He double-checked he had a mug, saw the orange cup, sighed in relief, and eagerly pressed 'brew 12oz'.

'Ding!' Chimed the equipment. 'What now?' He thought angrily, inspecting the screen. 'Insert water before use,' glared at him in the eye. A sudden, fierce furry ignited in Gary, and before he could stop himself, he found that he punched the plastic coffee dispenser, clasped the mug, and hurled it across his kitchen. It exploded against the refrigerator like a grenade.

Gary felt his heart stop. He surveyed his kitchen. The Keurig had keeled over and toppled from the shelf and severed into its pieces: the water lid, a head, the water container, a right arm, and the machine, the body, all covered in the coffee blood from the earlier mishap all because he didn't use a mug- the mug!

He rushed to the feet of his fridge carefully avoiding the shrapnel that threatened to assail him. The broken shell of an orange mug painted the floor beneath him. He picked up two of the larger pieces in his hand. If his heart had stopped before, it sank now.

The word 'Orange' could be seen when he merged the cracks of two pieces. He fumbled through more of the glass and found them displaying '-ou', 'gla-', 'I'm', and then a final shard displaying in bold, blue letters: 'Dad'. He tried to recreate the full line but couldn't find enough letters in the dust and remains.

Gary curled inwards like a killed spider and gripped tightly the 'Dad' shard. He ignored the pain as blood began to trickle from his hand. He began to weep. Not because he was lying like a ball on shards of broken, piercing glass, but because he missed his dad.

Gary missed the feel of his dad's stubble on his head, the steady beating of his heart against him with the books he read him, the anger when he broke the computer, his hearty laughter, and his reassuring smile. He missed that most of all.

He could still imagine his dad holding him even now comforting him as he wept.

"What happened? What's wrong? I'm here now, I'm here."

"I can't do it! I can't do it!" Gary sobbed.

"Can't do what?" His father calmly asked with an expression of strength and concern.

"Your obituary! I can't write your obituary! Make David do it! I write things that don't happen. Fantasy! If I write your obituary, it becomes real! Please, dad, don't let this be real."

His father's face turned somber and grave; however, hope twinkled in his eyes, and he replied, "I'm afraid I can't do that Frank Tank. I’m real, and really dead. We can’t ignore pain; despite how much we'd like to."

"It doesn't have to be real. Not if you hold me and I don't write it."

"You'd never forgive yourself if you didn't write it. I'm dead, Frank Tank, and you have to write about it."

"How? I don’t write obituaries. I write novels, and novels get forgotten! I don't want you to be forgotten."

His dad looked at him and laughed. He replied, "You better not forget me. Some dad I'd have been! Funerals are for memories. Write what you remember, and love others the way I love you. You will do a fine job."

"I'll let you and everyone else down."

His dad laughed again, "Let us down? I doubt it, you're the writer in the family after all."

Gary wept for a long time clutching the ash of the mug in the kitchen. There was a knock on the door. Another knock.

"Don't go Dad. Don't go." Gary kept muttering to himself.

Ding! Ding! Diiiiiinnng!

The doorbell sputtered out clear chimes that echoed through the house. Finally, a key turned the knob, and Phil opened the door.

“Gary? Hey Gary!” Phil stood at the door and called into the house. “I brought burgers!”

There was no answer. Phil walked towards the kitchen and began to hear someone talking. “Don’t go Dad. Don’t go. Don’t make me write it. Don’t go.”

Phil rushed in, and tossed the burger bags onto the counter as he approached his friend prostrate on the floor weeping quietly. He saw the Keurig splattered on the ground and heard the crunch of the mug beneath his shoes as he knelt down next to Gary who was still whispering, “Don’t go. Don’t go.”

Phil knew his friend well, and understood he was seeing something that wasn’t there. He gently prodded Gary.

“It’s okay Gary, I’m here. Tell me what happened. What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want to write it. Please make David do it.”

Phil got down gently and laid on the shards and clasped Gary in a bear hug.

“It will be okay. I’m here. You can do it. I’ll help you, Gary.”

“How can you help, Dad? You’re dead.”

“I’m not your dad, Gary. This is Phil.”

“Phil?” Gary looked up inquisitively examining Phil’s face as if it was an ornate porcelain pot picturing a ceramic bed of many unknown flowers.

“Yes; Phil, your friend. I brought burgers. Your dad is dead, and I brought burgers. You need to eat, and I brought burgers.” He kept repeating.

Slowly Gary stopped crying, and a clear blue light flickered in his eyes as he recognized his friend and withdrew from his hallucination.

“Ow!” He groaned as he adjusted in the broken glass. Small amounts of blood trickled down his cheeks, arms, legs, and hands where he had been scratched. Phil had only a small cut on his forearm.

They both rose and shook off the broken pieces of glass. In an unspoken, agreed silence, Gary and Phil bandaged themselves and washed up. Phil began to clean up the broken mug and Keurig.

Gary eyed the burger bags with a confused hunger and then finally said, “How did you get burgers? No one serves them this early.”

Phil returned, “Lunch starts at 10:30, and I got them when I left my meeting at 11.”

“Oh. I thought it was earlier. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. There is honey mustard for your fries.”

Gary opened the bag and a double burger with a large fry and honey mustard awaited him. He was silently very grateful but couldn’t properly remember how to share his gratitude. The two friends sat and ate their lunch without many words. At length, Gary finally gestured the quiet away as he spoke.

“I know how to start the obituary.”

“Oh yeah?” Phil met his eyes encouragingly.

Gary sat straight in his chair and imagined speaking to a crowd of crying eyes.

“Good morning!" He proclaimed to Phil, "You may be thinking this isn’t a good morning. After all, it’s storming outside, the burial has been delayed, and my dad, Thomas Gary Franklin, is dead inside this casket and we are left to grieve, broken and sad. Well yes, but I wish you a good morning anyway, because I love my dad, and that’s what he would say if he could. Therefore, good morning! Dad liked to read to us as children, and I’ll never forget when-”

-----

Saturday came and Gary began with the same words on a stage. He passionately described his father’s love of his mother, Sarah, and his two siblings to a crowd of family and strangers. He talked about the childhood books, the stories his dad had written which inspired him to write as a child and shared his father’s ability to turn any angry situation into an opportunity for laughter. He talked affectionately about his father’s smile and lazily unshaven face that would always beam brightly.

“When you leave this auditorium, and dad stays in his box, don’t leave broken, but instead, remember his smile and his eternal rest. It’s now up to us to smile like he did, because if we continue to love like him, he will always be present in us. I love you, dad. Thank you for loving me first.”

Gary concluded the obituary and sat next to his smiling but crying mother. He grabbed her hand and drew her in close for a hug, as Phil’s hand gripped his shoulder from behind. Sally, his sister, was already in David’s embrace. They all wept. Gary knew then he hadn’t lost his dad but had gained him. He was in him, his heart and mind. His dad wouldn’t come back, but Gary would go to him, and that was enough for Gary. He smiled and rose to follow the casket out of the auditorium.