Sack of Bones

I. Smoke and Silence

The funeral was over, but the silence still hung like smoke in the air—thick, lingering, inescapable. The last guests had wandered back to their cars, their murmurs fading into the distance. I stood beside Dad, hands shoved deep into my coat pockets, unsure if what I felt was relief or guilt. Maybe both.

He was quiet, jaw tight, eyes locked on the gravestone like it might suddenly say something new. He wasn’t crying. I wasn’t either. We weren’t that kind of family.

“Think you’ll miss him?” I asked after a long pause.

He didn’t look at me. Just stared at the gray slab in front of us, the name carved too neatly for a man whose life had been so messy.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low—so low the wind almost carried it away.

“I’ll miss who he could’ve been.”

II. Broken Inheritance

I nodded. There was nothing else to say. My fingers tangled in each other like they were trying to hold me together.

Dad turned toward me then, his expression unreadable. “You know I’m proud of you, right?” he said. “Hell… you’re the only thing I ever did right.”

I gave him a small smile—automatic, practiced. We weren’t great at this. Emotional honesty wasn’t something passed down in our bloodline. But I understood what he meant.

Dad wasn’t raised with warmth. His childhood was made of cold dinners, colder silences, and punishments handed out like candy. No hugs. No “I love you.” Just rules, expectations, and the back of a hand when he got it wrong.

He gave me more than he ever got. Still, what I received were scraps. But he? He got starved.

III. What He Didn't Say

I know he cares. He shows it in small, quiet ways—checking in during my lunch breaks, asking if I’m coming by this weekend, making sure my car’s running fine even when I say it is.

It’s not grand. But it’s something. And it’s enough to let me know I matter.

He looked like he had more to say. His mouth twitched like it wanted to open. But instead, he rubbed his thumb over a hangnail, looked away, and sighed.

I wanted to ask him, “Did Papa ever say he was proud of you?” But I didn’t need to. We both already knew the answer.

IV. The Smoke Between Us

Without another word, Dad pulled a cigarette from his pocket and walked slowly toward the edge of the cemetery. He leaned against a tree trunk, the bark cracked and gnarled like an old wound. He lit the cigarette, and the smoke curled upward, joining the gray sky. He started whistling a tune I didn’t recognize—haunting, quiet, but steady.

I stood still for a long time. That’s when I felt the tear burn down my cheek—unexpected and sharp. But I didn’t wipe it away.

To my surprise, I was thankful.

Maybe there was something soft left in me. Maybe I wasn’t made of granite after all.

But the tear wasn’t for Papa. It was for Dad.

V. Generations of Weight

Because burying a man doesn’t bury the pain he leaves behind. Pain echoes—it roots in the blood, passed down silently through generations. Maybe Papa learned that from his father. Maybe Dad learned it from him. And maybe, without realizing it, I carried it too.

God, I hope my own child never has to.

What would Papa say if he were alive now? What truth would he finally speak, if any? Would he apologize? Would he cry? Would he admit he didn’t know how to love?

I’d never know. Maybe that’s for the best.

Some truths only cut deeper when spoken.

VI. Heavier Than Bones

Dad stubbed out his cigarette, his shoulders sagging like they carried more than just grief—like they bore the full weight of history. He didn’t return right away. Just stood beneath the tree like he needed a moment more to be alone.

I turned toward the church, the old wooden doors just ahead. The sun pressed softly against my back, warm and light. My face was dry now, but in my chest, I carried something heavier than bones.

Grief. Regret. Compassion.

And hope.

Hope that maybe, somehow, the cycle ends with me.