Week 8: Vignettes

It was mid-fall, several months since he had passed away in the spring. And even with all that time, the gathering appeared poorly planned and even more poorly executed. It made sense though. He had spent his life doing most everything half-assed, it was only appropriate that the mourning of his death follow suit.
There were no flowers, no formal attire. Instead, there was beer and leather jackets. No one spoke thoughtfully of his life nor his passing; instead of gathering to mourn and remember, it seemed that people had decided it would be a good way to get a party started.
My mother had dropped me off there, leaving me stranded. I had been so adamant about going, and was now regretting it. I knew only a small handful of the people present, and tried not to wonder about the rest. He kept strange company, at least during the time I was in his life, who knew what he did when I wasn't.
A large portion of my time at the 'wake' I spent thinking of the day he died. The late-night phone call, the long drive to the hospital, only to be turned away by his wife as he lay in a room dying. Around me, the people were laughing and drinking, and I couldn't help but feel that this was all just a big joke.
'We came here today to remember Barry, a drunk like ourselves who never managed to get it right and stay on the straight and narrow. Let us all raise a can in his name.' I couldn't help but feel bitter. My father, who had failed me in many ways during my young life, was dead. I saw nothing to raise a drink to.