“Is there going to be a funeral?” my uncle asked, eyes wide. He looked so sad… afraid? “Because I really would like to come.”
“Of course,” I answered. “There will absolutely be a funeral but we’re not sure when.”
“Just make up a day, Carly,” my younger cousin Tricia snapped. “He won’t know the difference. He won’t remember anything.”
Crude little bitch, I thought.
“Is there going to be a funeral?” Uncle Rudy asked again. “Because I really would like to come.”
Tricia rolled her eyes, folded her arms and tossed a sneer across the room before she looked at me as if to say I told you so.
I know how impatient I get with my own 80-year-old father; I can’t even begin to fathom what Alzheimer’s would add to the mix. But still. If they’re so fucking annoyed, so bothered by him and his ways, can’t they place him somewhere where maybe the people caring for him could show a little more compassion? For fucks sake, his mother just died half an hour ago and yes, he’s asking for the fifth time if there is going to be a funeral… but do you not see his eyes? Do you not see the desperation behind the fading blue? Must you be so fucking crude as to dismiss what he says right in front of him?
Crude little bitch, I thought to myself again.