The Funeral
After hearing of his son's death, Mr. Winston tries to pick up the pieces of his shattered life while the countdown begins for his son's funeral.
A parent's worst nightmare is to outlive their children.
And somehow, someway, that nightmare winds up on my doorstep.
I know my son is a wild one; he'd been in and out of jail more times than I can count. Despite my warnings, despite my teachings, he wanted to live fast and die young.
He got his wish.
I received the phone call at 1:30 in the morning; I'd just come home from a long day at work when I got it. When I heard the words "your son", "identify the body" "county morgue", I fell apart. I prayed it was a nightmare, a cruel joke that had a punchline I was dying to hear. Unfortunately, I had to face the music.
My son might be dead.
I made it to the morgue and when they lifted that sheet, I knew.
Blond hair, beautiful blue eyes, and his trademark scowl earned from hanging around those awful kids.
It's my boy.
My bouncing, healthy, baby boy, now an ice cold body riddled with so many bullet holes it's a miracle it didn't touch his face. I wanted to comfort him, touch his cheek, close his eyes so I can lie to myself that he's sleeping.
That sheet covers him, and I came to terms that I'll never see him again.
"Yeah," I whisper, my throat tightening up.
"It's him."
