kite

my father says you died when he
was 17. you were his closest friend. you fell from the

 edge of a canyon, hang-gliding. your head cracked
open on a rock just like eggs against the counter.

your obituary was the kind of joke he thinks you
would have liked. you pissed him off, he says:

you were too nice to his mother, you combed
your hair always the right way, you were always
over for dinner when he wanted most to be alone.
“What can I do to help, Miz Reichelt—“ that’s what you
always said. you had too gummy of a smile.

my father says all these things on the way to
another funeral of another friend, this time
a math teacher with bone cancer. he looks
so tired. he says, Every funeral is that
first funeral. he says, Stupid prick.