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Illustration by Marley Allen-Ash
My father died the way he lived – stupidly. He was stabbed, nothing overtly malicious but the by-product of a fight gone bad. The perpetrator was eventually found and did their time. However, this story isn’t about them, rather it’s about the people left behind.
It is easy to get sidetracked in life, to focus on the big feelings, the trauma, to shed tears in honour of those lost. But in remembering a lifetime as profoundly impactful as my father’s, trying to smile at the absurdity of it all is far more on brand.
Throughout my life I have had the misfortune to attend many funerals and I often have the same thought, “Does this have to be boring?” My mind always drifts back to my father’s sendoff and I think of him in those moments and know that he would have chuckled ever so slightly at my tasteless joke. After all, my father’s memorial had an open bar, upbeat music and lots of wings.
A few weeks before my father’s unexpected death, he talked with my mother about how he wanted his funeral to go. He’d just had blood work done and everything was fine but it lead to the topic of death. She asked him how he wanted his funeral to go. His response was characteristic of the man: “Friends and family, booze and chicken wings. I want a party atmosphere. No crying, no suits, and please don’t display me like a trophy. There is already a deer head on my wall.”
He could not have known he would have those plans put so quickly into use.
Since Dad was found dead on the day he was supposed to go golfing, my mother, as an added touch, laid him to rest in his golfing attire. She added his beloved drywall mud-stained shoes. He didn’t want to be clean-shaven. He didn’t want his final remembrance to be a lie.
My father hadn’t had much of a childhood and lived vicariously through other people. He wasn’t the type of person who had many life goals. Still, he was consistent in one thing, bringing childlike joy to everyone he met, especially those who needed it.
Perhaps he found solace in assisting kids who required support. Perhaps teaching trade skills such as drywall work was his way of paying life forward, or maybe it was just fun for him.
My father’s last night was about him showing off his new video game to his friends, to his eventual killer. Getting drunk with his friends was the catalyst for his end.
The irony was not lost on me when – at 14 – I had my first real drink at his funeral. I know that he likely had a good laugh from above. I know in my bones if my father had lived a life of moderation, he wouldn’t have been in the wrong place, at the wrong time. So, a tribute to his childishness is both beautiful and deeply ironic.
His sendoff party was brimming with people, music and the savoury scent of inexpensive food and drinks enjoyed in the vibrant atmosphere of a bowling alley. Now add in grieving loved ones and welcome to the surreal setting of my father’s funeral. At the time I had no basis for comparison. Is it callous to call a funeral good?
The atmosphere was lively, with jugs of beer, barrels of chicken wings and an open bar. My mother tried the best she could to offer a lighthearted eulogy but my father had given her a nearly impossible task. She was asked to smile, to tell dumb stories and to do everything she could to not cry. His wake was 19 years ago but she still talks about how much of a blur that day was.
The killer’s mother had been hiding in the back of the room and listened to the bereaved tell silly stories of positivity, or how my father stepped up and did everything he could to be a father, or at least how he viewed the role. Her son was in his 20s when this happened. I lost my dad, and in a very real way, this woman lost her son.
I am glad she was there, to be honest. I try to live my life with as little spite as possible, but part of me does get satisfaction that her memories will be of this moment, a snapshot into my father’s soul.
That day, my cousin wore his full cadet uniform and was the first one I remember to break the “no crying” rule during his speech. A wall of tears came. Yet I knew my dad would have nothing but praise for him.
He said he would be watching and the last thing in the world he wanted was a quiet room full of tears, but I know he would make an exception for love.
Richard Kevis lives in Brampton, Ont.