by Debbie Gill-Warren

Well, it happened. They said it would. He had been a two packer a day since he was twelve years old. That’s a lot of cigarettes. How does one go about smoking that much at such an early age, anyway? She wondered how his tar-filled lungs ever made it to the ripe old age of seventy-three. But she was thankful for every year.

This was going to be the hardest part. The funeral was bearable; nice even. But this… how was she expected to host all these people?

Dad was loved by many and his dying wish had been for her to give him a glorious send-off to which she had reluctantly agreed. It sounded fine at the time he had requested it, but now it almost seemed unbearable.

The car turned down the street and her heart grew heavy. So many people were already there. A tear slid down her cheek. Carl grabbed her hand and squeezed.

“We can do this,” he assured her.

But she wasn’t sure as she gave him a tentative smile. She wasn’t sure of anything right now. Her best friend was gone and nothing could bring him back. All the nagging she had done didn’t work either.

“Geez, Dad, I can’t breathe in here!”

She had told him the last time she visited his home. It was their usual Saturday card date, and he had already lit two and was working on his third before they ever sat down to play.

“Aw, quit your fussin’, kiddo, and deal the cards already.”

He had touched the tip of her nose the way he always had as if she were ten years old. He had laughed, and she hugged him tight. He was her dad and she loved him, faults and all.

The car stopped and Carl exited first. Her heart was pounding and she wondered if she were having a heart attack. They say second-hand smoke will kill you, but she doubted she would be that lucky.

She took Carl’s offered hand and let him escort her up the walk, through the door, and into the crowd of waiting mourners.

What possible reason did any of them have for being here? Wasn’t the service enough? She always thought it strange how people couldn’t seem to let go after funerals. They always needed another place to gather with others to spread their gloom.

Meaningless words echoed in her ears as she passed by. She nodded, said some simple phrases of appreciation, trying her best to keep it together. Did they know she was secretly dying on the inside?

Mourners all dressed in black depressed her. She purposely wore her bright red dress. Dad would’ve loved that. He hated drabby clothes.

“None of that spinster stuff, sweetheart,” he had said in his best Bogart impression. “I wanna see my gal in heels. Live it up!”

“Okay, Dad,” she laughed, giving him one of her famously despised eye rolls. “I’ll be sure and rent a clown costume too.”

Did anyone care how her heart was breaking? She doubted it. The air inside was thick. Someone had opened the windows, but the whole house still reeked of his habit. She guessed it always would. Somehow that comforted her.

His old green recliner was the first thing she saw when she entered the living room. It faced the television just the way he liked it. He was there, sitting in his silk suit, looking like Sinatra with his hat pulled down over one eye and smiling.

“You done good, kid.”

He winked at her the way he always did and she smiled.

“Thanks, Daddy.”

Carl put his hand on her shoulder and she turned to face him. When she looked back at the chair, he was gone.

She walked over to the CD player and pushed the button. Track eight filled the room and everyone turned to see the lady in red. Dad knew she would turn on the tunes, and she smiled at the song choice he left for her.

Sinatra’s voice reverberated as he sang, I got you under my skin. It was a fitting choice.

“See ya, Pops,” she whispered. “Give Mom a hug for me.”

She put her finger to her lips then touched the picture frame next to the stereo. One last kiss to the man that taught her everything she knew. She was going to miss him terribly, but as she listened to the music and looked around the room, she knew he would always be here. No matter what, his memory was kept alive in the many faces gathered around her.

It was then she realized why he had wanted this party. It was not so much to honor him as it was for her to feel loved. A simple goodbye hug one last time. Another tear fell and she smiled. Even though her heart was broken… she smiled.

⸻

Debbie Gill-Warren is a creative writer who draws inspiration from real-life emotions, faith, and the everyday moments that shape our stories. Her writing reflects a heart rooted in compassion, honesty, and hope. Debbie manages a naturopathic clinic and cherishes time spent with her family. Through her stories, she hopes to offer comfort and a reminder that we are never truly alone.