I just woke from a dream and I want to write it down before I forget it.

My father called to complain about some mundane matter regarding his apartment.

I studied his voice, authenticated it, made sure it was real. I listened for his unique southern drawls and hillbilly flourishes.

I said little as he submitted to what he felt was the unique privilige of family that lets the dead call to chat with their living.

My mood on hearing his voice was not unlike those times he called toward the end of his life, drunk as a cowboy, hollering down the line at me about the good times.

I interrupted him to say "I can’t understand anything you’re saying." His phone was a 50¢ piece of cardboard through which his voice sounded like a stiff wind trying to ram itself through a tiny hole.

I told him I would stop by to see him. Before ending the call I announced "I just gotta say, this is a little weird that you’re calling me." He understood. He knew his disadvantage.

When I saw him my mind returned to the circumstances of his death, and to the funeral. Closed casket. The funeral home swore they could dress him up so he’d look good for open casket but we said no. Only in the dream did I regret that decision.

We spoke in his kitchen and I tried to find where, where in your head did you shoot yourself? I couldn’t find it. I looked at the back of his head and I studied his face, looking for the bullet holes. The coffin was on his porch but I did not look at it.

At the funeral (the real funeral, not anything in this dream) I felt like that coffin was smiling, smiling in that flat way a container grins when it is completely, soundly shut.

Talk revolved around everyday concerns. He knew most of his things were gone but specifically wanted to know what I did with his phone and answering machine.

He had been away for a while and wanted to get back on track with his apartment and the life he took away.