Four Visits, One Box

The hospital's got my number, I don't know how .. next of kin on paper, and the paper tracked me down. ICU rings at 2am asking about "dad's wishes." Wishes. He met me four times. I'll list them if you've got a minute. Meeting one: I was six, he smelled like pub carpet, brought a footy. Wrong code. Now they want a call on ventilation from the kid with the wrong-code footy. Power of attorney over a man who never had authority over a single bedtime. I signed the DNR for someone who never resuscitated a thing between us .. my hand didn't shake. That bothered me more than if it had. Nurse says "you can talk to him, he can maybe hear you." Maybe hearing. Yeah. That was always the setting. Meeting two: I was eleven, McDonald's, he took a call outside and the call outlasted the Happy Meal. So I sit with the beeping. Closest thing to a conversation we've had. Two visits in, a machine's doing his breathing .. first honest work anything in this room's ever done for me. Met you four times .. buried you once, the ratio's the eulogy, do the sums. Next of kin on paper, paper's all we was, they keep saying "son" like the title still runs. Four visits. One box. That's the whole speech. That's all you got. The celebrant says "devoted father." I check the coffin .. right name, wrong résumé. Who fed her that? His mates from the club nodding along, they knew a bloke I never got: apparently generous, apparently funny .. "apparently" is doing pallbearer work today. Meeting three: my year twelve graduation. Uninvited. Back row. Left before the photos. I only know 'cause mum went white. The funeral home asked what he'd have wanted .. you're asking the wrong four people, and I'm all of them. There's a eulogy running in my head nobody booked: he was punctual to nothing but the pub, taught me everything by absence .. how to fix a car by him not being there, how to shave off YouTube, how to leave. That one I refuse to inherit. Meeting four: two years back, he found my number, wanted to "explain some things." The explaining lasted one beer. His shout. First thing he ever paid for. I kept the receipt. I don't know why I kept the receipt. Now everyone's shaking my hand like I lost something .. mate, you can't lose what never showed up. This is grief with no relationship under it, scaffolding on an empty block, and I'm holding it up in a borrowed tie. Met you four times .. buried you once, the ratio's the eulogy, do the sums. Next of kin on paper, paper's all we was, they keep saying "son" like the title still runs. Four visits. One box. That's the whole speech. That's all you got. The estate's a shoebox and a storage unit in arrears. I inherited his debts and his jawline .. both showing up in the mirror lately. One shaves easier. Solicitor says I can renounce the lot, sign here, walk away clean .. funny. That's his signature move. And my hand won't do it. Won't. Can't tell you the difference. Went through the shoebox. Every school photo of me. Every year. Corners soft from handling. Didn't know what to do with that. Still don't. It doesn't fix anything. It just complicates the maths .. the ratio was clean before the shoebox. Mum asked how the funeral was. I said "well attended." She laughed. First laugh either of us ever got out of him. The storage unit's eighty a month. I keep paying it. Tell people it's till I sort it. It's been seven months. There's nothing in there worth eighty. It's the last bill of his I can decide to cover .. turns out that's the inheritance: the choosing. He never chose. I keep choosing. That's the whole difference, and it costs me eighty a month to prove it. Met you five times. Buried you once. Fifth one you were quiet .. best visit of the run. Next of kin on paper, and the paper's finally done, they can stop saying son. Five visits. One box. ...The shoebox stays.