Sitting (Scene One)

I'm not a novelist, or writer of fictional short stories. I find it difficult to piece together all the characters, plots and scenes throughout a longer piece and make it interesting. But I do often come up with short vignettes, what I like to call "first scenes" of what could be a longer story. This is one of them. It's short, and it lacks context, but it came to me this morning ... from where, I have no idea. Anyway, enjoy.

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I sat alone, smoking a cigarette, my first in almost 30 years. It seemed fitting giving the setting and what had just occurred. It was getting late, the sun setting behind distant barns and silos that dotted that point where small town meets bucolic farmscape.

It had been six hours since we remanded Dad to his final terrestrial resting place … the Saint James Catholic Cemetery, across the road from a park where I played little league baseball so many years ago. The place where I first made out with a girl. Where my high school buddies and I would drink beers and booze we’d stolen from our parents’ fridges and liquor cabinets.

It was also the site of our five-year high school class reunion, a pigroast/drunkfest that lasted until dawn the next morning; the first and only reunion I attended. Fact is, it was also one of the last times I'd been back here ... until today.

After the burial, I sent my family – my wife, Dana, and two daughters, Eliza (14) and Kenna (11) – home, telling them I’d stay on through the weekend with two of my three sisters to “close up shop” (my words) at Dad’s place. The two sisters in question, Maggie and Ruthann, decided to stay at a local Holiday Inn Express on the edge of town. Kerry, the oldest, didn’t bother to come back for the funeral. Not surprising given her long history with – and hatred for – my dad and to a degree, our mom, who died near two decades ago.

Frankly, it was probably best for everyone that Kerry stayed away. Had she come, spats, tiffs, arguments and other disturbances would have peppered the weekend like small wildfires popping up during a drought.

I decided to spend the weekend at Dad’s house, the house where I grew up. I’m not sure why. Maybe it was because I wanted one last time in this place, the place where so many memories happened. Maybe it was to show my sisters that I was more committed, more loyal and more sentimental than they were. Or maybe I was just a masochist.

As it turns out, what happened that weekend, in that house would stick with me for the rest of my life.

© 2026 David R. Haznaw