Brad got a voicemail message overnight while his phone was off. No voices, just an Enya song about angels. He thought it was weird until I pointed out that it had been exactly one year since his dad died (he passed away in his sleep in the early morning hours of July 4, 2008).
Brad then decided the only explanation was that someone had remembered and left the message for him overnight as a show of sympathy. But that makes no sense because, honestly, there are probably only a handful of people who remember (I’m sure the evil MF is not one of them). And even if someone DID remember, NO ONE would take the time to wait until after midnight to call — at the precise anniversary and while Brad’s phone happens to be off.
Me: “It was probably your dad.”
Brad: “My dad’s dead.”
Me: “Maybe he was calling from Heaven.”
Brad: “My dad wouldn’t listen to Enya.”
Me: “Then he’s calling from Hell.”
When Brad planned his dad’s funeral last year, he really wanted to do right by him. They hadn’t had the best relationship; his dad had failed him many times. Brad wanted to end their relationship as the responsible, bigger man he had always been, even as a little boy.
I think he felt pretty constrained by his options at a traditional funeral home, but he was able to arrange two things his dad would’ve loved. First, Bob was buried in his Corona boxers. (Well, I mean, under his clothes… Surprise! Funeral homes ask for underwear!!) And second, Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Freebird” was played at his funeral.
This was a union guy who drank hard and smoked his whole life, who removed the halo he wore after nearly being killed in a car accident himself, and who wore t-shirts with such winning slogans as “Sex Instructor: First Lesson Free” and “Try and Burn This One, Asshole” (the latter featured a picture of an American flag).
Not much of an Enya listener. But maybe he’s trying new things.
*****
In other news, I have lots of pictures from our (mild fail) July 4th fireworks excursion, but I haven’t uploaded them yet. I’ll do that tomorrow probably.
At one point tonight, Brad and the three oldest were on our neighborhood playground while Archie and I layed nearby on a blanket waiting for the fireworks to start. It was just getting dark, and I was laying next to Archer, looking at him and talking, and he was staring up at me with the biggest blue eyes, cooing and kicking his feet out the bottom of his gown and punching his fists in the air. I could just barely hear the kids on the playground over the hum of the cicadas, and I remember thinking, “This is perfection.” In that moment, I was completely content.
And then the big kids came back. And there was screaming and running away and constant constant CONSTANT inane comments and complaints and exhaustion.
The perfection is always fleeting in this life of mine.
