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"Ahhh," Ritchie sighs happily. "This is what Christmas is all about."
We've all heard that from our fathers. At least once.
I think of my own father, dead and buried. My first Christmas without him.
"Merry Christmas, Dad," I say, and I make sure to keep my eyes out of the fire.
The ice cream melts to my fingers.
As the night moves on and blurs toward Christmas morning, Marv, Ritchie, and I become separated. The crowd's thick, and once we lose each other, it's all over.
I go back through town and visit my father's grave and stay there a long time. From the cemetery, I see a small glow that's the fire, and I sit there, looking at the gravestone with my father's name on it.
I cried at his funeral.
I let the tears trample my face in complete silence, guilty that I couldn't even summon the courage to speak about him. I knew everyone there was only thinking about what a drunk he was, while I was remembering the other things as well.
"He was a gentleman," I whisper now.
If only I could have said that on the day, I think, because my father never had a bad word for anybody or a true act of unkindness. Certainly, he never achieved much, and he disappointed my mother with broken promises, but I don't think he deserved not a word from anyone in his family that day.
"I'm sorry," I tell him now as I get up to leave. "I'm so sorry, Dad."
I walk away, afraid.
Afraid because I don't want my own funeral to be that forlorn and empty.
I want words at my funeral.
But I guess that means you need life in your life.
Walking now.
Just walking.
When I make it home, I find Marv asleep in the backseat of his car and Ritchie sitting on my porch. His legs are out straight, and he leans back against the fibro. On closer inspection, I find that Ritchie's also asleep. I tug at his sleeve.
"Ritchie," I whisper. "Wake up."
His eyes slap open.
"What?" he says, almost in panic. "What?"
"You're asleep on my porch," I tell him. "You better get home."
He shakes himself awake now, looks at the half-moon, and says, "I left my keys on your kitchen table."
"Come on." I drop my hand, he takes it, and I help him up.
Inside, I find it's a few minutes past three o'clock.
Ritchie's fingers curl around the keys.
"You want anything?" I ask. "Drink, food, coffee?"
"No, thanks."
But he doesn't leave, either.
