I was only 10 when we lost him.
It fucked me up so bad that they put me on medication and
I’ve been “the Xanax kid” ever since.
Pop had heart disease, the diabetes, cancer…
you name it, he had it. He knew
he didn’t have long and would spend most of his days
rambling about how his last wish was to meet
“that son’a bitch from Philadelphia.”
Ma’ and I wrote letter after letter for months.
About a week before what would be dad’s last
radiation treatment, we finally got a reply.
He was going to be in town, he would arrange to swing by the clinic.
Except, he never did. Something about
leaving a water-bottle in his carry-on and inclement weather.
Pop spent his last 24 hours
watching Cast Away on repeat and weeping
into his favourite white shirt and I’ve never
stopped blaming Tom Hanks for ruining his last Friday.
His last words were:
“I hope they have subs in heaven.”