Dying was an Insult to you.

I Stood with Harry excerpt

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I Stood with Harry 

Chapter One:

 You Died

  Dear Dad:

You were angry at death when it came. If you could, you would have fought the grim reaper off with the broken end of a beer bottle. That is how you fought your mum’s boyfriend after you witnessed him strike her. You were ten years old, malnourished, “skin on bone,” as you said, from a diet of bread and drippings. But that didn’t stop you standing up to a bully. There was no bullshit to you. You jumped into the fray when an underdog was being attacked. But death now had you in his grasp when you were five years short of a hundred and there was no fight left in you. You were too old and too sick. So, you fought me instead, and that’s all right, because at that time I was the closest person to you in the world. I understood your anger, your despair, and your frustration. I understood immediately why  days before you died, you cried out, “John, you cunt; where’s my fucking tapioca pudding.” I knew you were disappointed in me while you were on your ICU deathbed. I couldn’t get what you wanted most - food in your belly to stop the pangs of hunger that triggered memories of your famished youth.