Sad and Cigar

Let me tell a story. And this one might be true and the I being I. Or maybe it's best not. Let's just say the nothing and say the story because we want it out. A funeral. Let's maybe make it the one of my grandfather. And a father, drunk and alone, left alone, mourning in a deep colour that showed on his face, sad, vengeful somehow, mocking his mother, the widow, by shifting the coffin, open around in the room. Moving his dead father around the room. Can this have had really happened? And perhaps then taking him outside around the side of the funeral home, if raining it was icy and hitting at him until some blood came out. Dragging him back inside and cleaning ourselves up in the small gaudy bathroom. Sitting him down, now silent and sobering and dabbing at his nose with a dark handkerchief. A sick shuffle and scuffle, and, perhaps, I witness and teller of a story for no reason other than to say: in the end, I am sad for this and smoking cigars for all of them, the now many dead and the at last mad.