A newspaper
At the tender age of fourteen, in the height of a warm midsummer, the blow fell upon me. The words struck like a blade, sudden and unforgiving. The events that followed remain etched into my memory with the sharpness of the day they occurred, as though time itself refuses to dull their edges.
"He, Died."
The black-tipped brush slipped from my finger, striking the floor with a hollow sound that mirrored the emptiness I felt within. My face, once flush with the vibrancy of youth, turned pallid. Unbelievable---no, intolerable! Yet, I obeyed the call, trailing the voice across streets and blocks, the question burning within my mind: could it be true? And then, as I rounded the corner, there he was. The coroner had already assembled Mother and Gustav around the lifeless figure. From my vantage point, only his legs protruded from beneath the darkened shroud.
But as I drew nearer, his face emerged with a grim clarity from beneath the edge of the cloth. Pain had carved itself into his features; terror clung to his countenance. A strange detail held my focus---stranger still, perhaps, that it would be what I remembered most vividly. Not the coroner's declaration of a stroke as the cause of death. but the newspaper. Yes, the newspaper, clenched fiercely in his left hand as though it were a treasure. He had perished for it. Just a newspaper.
That was all.
That was what he died for.
His entire life lost, lost to a newspaper.
I collapsed to my knees on the cold pavement, overcome with despair. Without needing to turn, I knew Mother was weeping too. Her sorrow resonated in the air, the quiet silence bearing an unbroken wail.
I could not grasp my emotions, adrift between grief and a hollow longing. Despite his stern demeanor, I loved him dearly. Yet, he had kept so much of himself hidden---stories of his parents and grandparents, the passions that stirred within him beyond the toil of work and the escape of drink. Those tales, those truths, were now lost forever. A history buried with him, swallowed by the earth.
Despite his harshness, he was still my father---my provider, my guide. He had been there alongside Mother when I broke my arm, ensuring I was cared for. Yet now, I was numb, unable to reconcile with the finality of it all. Grief bound us momentarily, but soon, as was our way, we resumed our routines, ignoring the obvious. Each silently carrying the weight of what we had lost.
By the following day, my sorrow had transfigured into a seething anger---a burning nail lodged deep within my heart. Even then, I knew this wound would remain unhealed, a scar upon my very spirit forever.
"Why him? Why for something so meaningless?" I demanded of God, but the heavens offered no reply. Only silence greeted my anguished plea---a silence I had come to expect. What kind of God would allow such a cruelty to previal?
Reflecting now, I finally comprehend the macabre wisdom within a piece of my fathers counsel.
"A man does not truly become a man until he buries his father."
At the time, I dismissed it as little more than a contrivance, a well-worn aphorism meant to instill guilt or compliance. Like his musings on politics or his unsolicited advice on marriage, I assumed it would prove hollow with age. But I was mistaken---utterly and profoundly mistaken.
For in burying him, I learned more than I could have anticipated. It was the unspoken proof that, beneath his reserved exterior, my father had possessed a kernel of wisdom---a wisdom he rarely chose to share.
Death brought with it a deluge of obligations---documents to sign, wills to decipher, or in our case a lack thereof. It seemed as though the world itself descended upon us, each part demanding its due.
The burden was maddening.
His entire existence, squandered through drink, smoke, and deceit. Forty years as a customs officer, with little to show beyond the bread he placed on our table. He provided for us, yes, and for that, I remain grateful. Yet his death was as unremarkable as his life's achievements. Were it not for Gustav and myself, his memory would have vanished within a month of the world, his name unspoken and his legacy forgotten.
A god damn newspaper.
After he was laid to rest beneath the shade of an oak tree, we said our final goodbyes. I sought to console Mother, who appeared as fragile as a leaf, ready to be carried by the gentlest breeze. Once the service concluded, Gustav and I remained behind, seated in silence before the marble grave.
We simply started at it, contemplating what he had become. Gustav's face was expressionless, yet I knew his mind mirrored my own---reflecting on Father's life, his death, and the emptiness it left behind.
In that moment, seated by his grave, I made a solemn vow---a vow known only to myself until now. I swore that my life would not be squandered as his had been. No drink, no deceit, no indulgence in vice. Above all, I vowed that I would die for something I deemed meaningful. Not for nothing. Not a fucking newspaper and a hot cup of coffee. No matter what it would take. Never to die like him. I resolved with every fiber of my being that my existence and my final secession would hold a purpose.
Though I may have faltered in certain aspects of that promise, in spirit, I remained true to its core.
Not a god forsaken newspaper.
I would always try.