Second chance

SECOND CHANCE.

It is a perfect winter's morning as I prepare to die for the first
time.
The sun is slowly rising in a cloudless cobalt sky as our entourage
enters the silent churchyard. The only sound is that of our feet
crunching upon the slowly melting frost. There are eight of us,
including two gravediggers, and a Vicar. Was that all my Father's life
amounted to, a pathetic box of ashes and eight souls, three of which
are complete strangers?
Inside I'm not sad, my body just feels numb with madness. Madness at
never managing to say goodbye face to face to the man who brought me
kicking and screaming into this crazy world. For all our differences he
was part of my makeup as much as I was.
We all shuffle along in the vicar's wake, his colourless robe flowing
majestically through the damp grass. Beside me, my wife gives my
freezing hand a reassuring squeeze. A watery smile is my returning
gesture.
I recall our stupid argument earlier, a dispute over my wife's black
skirt. I remarked that funerals were the only time I saw her lovely
slender legs. Not the perfect way to start an otherwise tense
day.
Reaching our intending goal we all cluster around a small, freshly dug
hole in the ground. Beside me, my Sister stands with her husband, her
usual tough exterior shattered as she sobs and snivels her way through
the vicars pray for forgiveness. I look at her with a feeling of
exasperation; her tears are just puppy tears, she hated the old man
just as much as me.
As I stand with bended head I pray my Father has forgiven me. I hadn't
seen him for over ten years, and for most of that time I haven't even
bothered trying.
The vicar's words don't even register; they seem to be broadcasting
from the other end of a long dark tunnel.
My mind is focused upon one missed phone call.
After years of non-communication my Father had plucked up the courage
to speak to me. My wife had taken the call; I was putting in some
much-needed overtime at work. If only I had spoken to him, then things
might have been different. But I thought the 'I've got Cancer, I've
only got a short while to live' was a cheap stunt, a desperate attempt
at more emotional blackmail. Believe me I've had my fill of mind games
in my troubled past.
As the vicar drones on I'm transported back to the insanity of my
youth.
It was a late Saturday night when we found him comatose; a drained
bottle of spirits cradled within his arm, a dozen empty packets of
pills arranged theatrically around his slumping torso.
My Mother is hysterical as she tries to rouse him. Unable to wake him
she grabs the phone. Whilst she frantically babbles to the emergency
services I stare in disbelief at the figure slumped on the armchair. It
is then I notice several discarded matchboxes; their contents brimming
with tiny white capsules. I should have felt sorry for him then; it was
an obvious cry for help. But I was just angry; he was even too cowardly
to take his own life.
'Let us take a moment to reflect on Ian's life,' the Vicar says,
bringing me back to reality. Heads bowed we all stand remembering the
man that was my Father.

The Vicar begins an enjoyable Oration on my Fathers life.
I reminisce the past with a cold shudder. The times my Father would
use my Mum as a human punch-bag. Of how he would deprive us of
electric, taking the fuses and hiding them, leaving a mother and two
children cold, hungry and terrified in a small bedroom.
That was my Fathers life, a man who lived for his next bottle. A sad
lonely man, who used drink as an excuse to wash away the pain of
living.
With a chuckle I relive a scene in my head. It is of my Mum, dressed in
just a flimsy towel being chased down the moonlit street by my Father
wielding a set of garden shears.
She had only wanted to have a hot bath like everyone else. That was the
kind of man we were burying.
'Would anybody like to lower the casket into the final resting place?'
the vicar asks. I'm jolted from my reverie as my Nan roughly pushes me
forward, 'Go on lad, its what your Dad would have wanted.'
I look to my Sister for support, but she shakes her head in a tearful
reluctance. I have no option but to take centre stage. With a hammering
heart I take the tiny casket from the vicar. It looks so small, even
the copper plate writing baring his name and details seem insignificant
and bland. I tread slowly to the graveside, my feet heavy with
trepidation. From a discreet distance the gravediggers watch the
service like two faceless hulks straight out of a cheap horror
movie.
It is then that I see the ghost of my father. He is nothing like the
man that I remember. He looks happy, contented, at peace with the
world. He stands opposite me, smiling a big cheesy grin. He looks the
picture of healthiness standing there. He is wearing an immaculate
coffee coloured suit, his polished shoes dazzling in the bright morning
glare.
'Hello Son,' he says. I cannot answer, I just gape at the apparition in
disbelief.
'Look, I know this is hard for you to understand, but I'm sorry the way
things turned out,' he continues.
'Sorry?' Is all I can utter.
'Yeah, I truly I'm. But what you have to remember, I was ill back then.
I was sick son, I needed help, mental help that only I could sort out.
I never meant to hurt you or your Mother. But is wasn't all bad, was
it?' Before I can reply he says, 'Do you remember the time I showed you
the stars?'
Tears start to well as I remember. He took me, an inquisitive eight
year old into the back garden to point out the stars and their names.
We were walking backward, our necks craning to take in all the various
constellations when my Dad disappeared. He had fallen over the wall and
into a clump of prickly roses bushes. We sat on the small stonewall for
ages just giggling and laughing.
'And do you remember your first proper bike?' he asked.
'Yeah,' I reply smiling. A derelict chopper, which he had brought
second-hand and lovingly, restored for a magical Christmas
present.
'You see its not all black and white son. I know I wasn't always the
Father you wanted, or needed but it wasn't for the want of
trying.'
Suddenly, a fog starts to gather around my Fathers form. Gradually he
starts to disappear. 'Dad!' I shriek.
Before finally fading away he shouts 'Just remember, I will always
love you. I'm so very proud of you son.'
'Are you alright?' someone asks. It is the Vicar, her hand on my arm.
'You went into a trance for a couple of seconds, thought you were going
to faint.'
All I can do is smile weakly back. For the first time in a long while I
feel a great burden has been lifted from my shoulders.
As I stand there, my Father a heavy weight in my arms I feel I have to
say something in his passing. I have to exorcise the past and finally
bury it with my Father.
Clearing my throat I look around. I see a black bird veering through
the cloudless sky, its piercing shriek penetrating the hushed tragedy
playing beneath its wings. 'I would like to say a few words about my
Father.' Already I can feel water forming within my eyes. 'He may not
have lived the life he dreamed about. Maybe the world won't remember
him for contributing something immense to the human race. But deep down
he wasn't a bad person; he was like you and me, a fragile individual
whose persona was fraught with tiny faults. But God didn't make us
perfect, he made us so we can learn from our mistakes; to try to be a
better person.'
As I lower the casket into the freshly dug soil I finish by saying,
'I'm just glad I had a chance to make it up with my father, to remember
him not as a flawed man but as a wonderful Dad.'