i fumble with my fork as my dad  tells me he "gets" my depression
sunday morning church crowd in a ******* barrel just off the interstate
i mumble something about refusing medication
he applauds me for being "strong"
which has always been the goal,
unattainable as that is.
"you're not independent enough.
you're 18
19
20
years old
so grow up
and pay your own bills."

"yes sir."

cut back to that cup of coffee
those eggs, bacon, back pain, old age
"i won't be here to see you guys have kids"
gee dad.
i love you too.

death has never been comfortable for anyone but liars.

or the dying.

the small jars of honey on the table are just asking to be
stolen.