In Buddahism They Bury Urns
It has been three weeks since the funeral. My last vision of the urn being sent to its final resting place, burned into the back of my eyelids. Twenty-one days since the line of strangers avoid my gaze to tell me, “I’m sorry for your loss…”
I buried a man I’ve barely ever really known. A man who until recently I had listed in my phone as “DON’T ANSWER”, even though it probably should say DAD.
“Such a soul he had…”
“You remind me of him…”
“He’s in a better place…”
My wife rings me, and I look at my phone. I agree to take the dogs to the vet, if she agrees to wear that top that drives me wild on our date night later.
As I wait for the dogs to get checked out, I play with my phone, daring myself to read the text I ignored three weeks ago.
Missed text from “DON’T ANSWER” 12.02 AM, March 10, 2010.
“I feel alone, kid. I can’t take the pain anymore. I’m sorry for what I’ve done, please forgive me. Please respond before it’s too late.”
I press delete.