Page 72 of Bringing Home the Bacon
“Bacon. No one expects you to drop everything and?—”
“Trent? Your dad gave me a home when I didn’t have one. He treated me like a son when my real father couldn’t be bothered. I’ll be there.”
Mourners pour out of the service for Trent’s dad, their arms wrapped around each other, dabbing at their eyes with tissues. Mourners likely isn’t the right word, though. Of course there is a sadness—a somberness—in the air, but what I just witnessed inside that funeral home was a celebration.
We celebrated the life of a kind and decent man. One by one, people came up to the podium and shared stories about the impact Trent’s dad has had on their lives. By all accounts, he was a phenomenal husband, father, and friend who soaked up every moment possible with the people he loved. I count myself incredibly lucky that I was one of those people.
I couldn’t take my eyes off Trent and his sister during those speeches as they nodded their heads and squeezed each other’s hands. What an absolute gift it must be to hear such wonderful things said about your father and to know without a doubt that they’re true.
That’s not something I’ll experience in my lifetime, but if I play my cards right, hopefully many years from now my children will.
I spot a bench outside the funeral home and take a seat. As soon as I sit, my phone vibrates in my pocket with a text.
Colleen
Is it too soon to say I miss you?
I respond immediately and without thinking.
No, but it doesn’t change the fact that you left.
Maybe I’m being harsh. Maybe I should open my heart and say what I really want to say, which is, “I love you and I miss you so much it’s killing me.” Maybe I should tell her that I’m at a funeral for a man I adored, and it’s bringing up a million questions for me like “Why couldn’t my own father stick around?” and “Why do the people who love me always leave me?”
But I don’t say any of those things. I just pocket my phone and close my eyes, hoping the spring sun shining down on me can provide some semblance of comfort.
Footsteps approach. Trent is coming down the steps with his mother and sister, the last ones to leave the service. I rise to greet them.
“Thank you again for being here, sweetheart,” his mother says when they reach me. “Richard loved you very much and so do I.”
“I love you too, Joanne.” I give her another hug. “And Richie Rich. He was a wonderful man.”
“He sure was. And he loved when you called him that.” She dabs at her nose with a handkerchief. “We’ll see you at the luncheon? Or do you have to head back to Fart Lick?”
I try to stifle my laugh, so it comes out as a snort. “It’s, uh—It’s Fork Lick, ma’am, not Fart Lick.”
“Oh thank goodness!” She chuckles. “I was trying to be supportive of your new town’s name, but I was struggling with it. Fork Lick is much better. May the patrons at your new comfort food restaurant happily lick their forks for years to come.”
“Thank you, my friend.” I place a hand on her shoulder. “I’d love you all to come up for a meal on the house when you’re up for it.”
“We certainly will, sweetheart. See you at the luncheon.”
“I’ll see you.” I nod.
Trent’s sister gives me a wink and ushers her mother toward their waiting car. After they’re out of sight, Trent hangs back with an odd look on his face.
“You wanna ride with me?” I gesture to my car in the parking lot.
“Hell no,” Trent jokes. “You’re a terrible driver.”
“A guy backs into a fire hydrant one time…” I joke back, but something about Trent is still off. “What’s going on?” I ask. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” he says. “All things considered, I’m okay. I just—I have something to say to you,” he stammers. “And I hope you take it the way it’s intended.”
“Dude, you sound nervous.” I chuckle. “When have you ever been nervous to say something to me?”
“Have you responded to any of those messages you were getting from your dad?” he blurts.
“No.” The usual pit in my stomach that makes itself known whenever my father is mentioned rears its ugly head. “Why?”
