An unlikely casualty. I just don’t get it. Good guys aren’t suppose to go out this way.
“Did Poppi kill the bear or save it?,” asks my son months after my dad was buried. He is playing on the floor, and I am trying to swallow grief long enough to go through the motions. Cook the breakfast, sweep the floors, cry quietly in the bathroom, wash the dishes. This has become the routine since losing my parents, a fine balance between faking okay and admitting I’m not. The question is as immediate as it is random and I’m taken aback by this sudden mention of my dad. It takes a second for me to place the bear reference but then I understand, too. The funeral might’ve been three months ago or yesterday to his 5-year-old mind. I tell the child that his Poppi saved the bear. I tell him that his Poppi was so brave, lived his whole life helping and never, ever hurting. I tell him…
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