Last Words

My father opened his eyes, looked around, and smiled. "You are here!" he said.

I held his hand, looked upon his sick face, and said, "I am here, Dad."

"Well, fuck you and fuck the airplane that brought you here." He coughed.

His lips were cracked and dry. His brown hair had fallen off not too long ago and his eyes were dim, the colors fading.

"It is okay Dad." I said.

"It is not okay son," he coughed some more. "Look at me for fuck's sake, just look at me. Fifty-five and I am down like a sick fucking horse."

"Take it easy dad."

"Where is the fucking whore?" He said and looked around.

"You mean Mom?" I asked.

"Yeah, that whore."

"In the kitchen."

"Always in the fucking kitchen. That fucking whore in the kitchen and you...you fucking sonofbitch are here."

"I am here for you Dad."

"Well big fucking deal, son, big fucking deal." He coughed. "Life is one big fucking whore son, the biggest whore in the universe. The fucking bitch, I...I would fuck her up the ass right now if I see her, right this second with my sick dick and with my sick balls." He cried. "The fucking whore never showed me a good fucking day. And now I am going to die without having done a damn thing..." he said and then died.

I covered his face with the sheets and went into the kitchen.

"He is dead." I said and grabbed a water bottle from the frig.

She kept washing the dishes and looking outside through the big window.

"Mom!" I said. I needed her to say something, I wanted her to cry, to shout, to feel.

She kept washing the dishes.

I went outside and called the hospital. The large farm looked dead. Everywhere you looked, death stared you back in the face.

I lit a cigarette and sat down on the doorsteps.

One day in the not so near future, my son will ask me about his grandfather and what was the last thing that he said.

I will clear my throat, look him in the eyes, and say, "Life is one big fucking whore son." Yeah, your granddad was something, really, a great man who...

I saw the ambulance coming down the driveway.

Minutes later they parked in front of me, grabbed the stretcher from the back of the van, said hello, and went inside.

It has been almost a year since my last visit. They didn't tell me about his sickness; they hid it away like a dark family secret. "Your father is dying." She told me on the phone the day before.

"Don't do it, Ma'am!" One of the ambulance guys shouted.

I heard the shot before standing up to go inside.

She laid on top of him across the bed, while her head came over the side, well, maybe what has left of her head. The shotgun lay on the floor under her feet.

They dragged me outside and called in for more help.

Over to the south, dark clouds were gathering to water the dead cotton plants.

I walked toward the fields and lay on the dry dirt. It rained.

That night I sat on the porch and watched the storm head north.

Life was all around me; sounds and voices came from the fields and from