You in the prone position was the way I would always describe you.

Drunk and fallen in the yard, the dew soaking your clothes and dead grass stuck everywhere, and you expected me to brush you off. I did.

Spread across the couch, staring blankly at the television, and you expected me to wait on you, hand and foot. I did.

Passed out in the hallway, and you expected me to throw a blanket on you. I did.

Prostrate on the bathroom floor, sick to your stomach, and you expected me to clean up your mess. I did.

Lying on the hospital bed, pale, atrophied, grotesque, a victim of your own excess, and you expected me to sit there and weep. I did.

Now people are gathering to remember you and say good-bye, and you're prone once again. Your suit is pressed, your tie is perfectly knotted, your hair is neatly combed, and your face is clean shaven. You're looking like the handsome father I could only dream of when I was young, and you're expecting me to remember you as you look today.

Don’t worry, Daddy. I will.