Mark

Dad didn't smoke Marlboro, he smoked unfiltered Camels, and he didn't die of lung cancer, but he's still dead. I’m 45 years old, married, two-kids; he’s been gone over 30 years, and every time I see this frickin’ thing, memories of him swarm over me like maggots on bad meat.
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I have no idea where he got the red thermos with the Marlboro logo. The reason it isn’t buried in the Arthur Kill land fill since Reagan was president is because Mom couldn’t throw anything away. Now Mom’s gone. May she rest in peace.
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Now it’s mine.
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Good-bye old man. No more memories of fear; no more memories of pain. I don’t drink because of you; I guess I can thank you for that, but I can never forgive you.
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Every Sunday in summer you’d get Mom to pack us each a sandwich and to fill the thermos for me with Kool-Aid and ice. Every Sunday in summer you’d take me to Willowbrook Park. Every Sunday in summer I’d watch you play softball. Every time you got a hit or made a play, you’d look to see if I was watching, and you’d smile. Every time you screwed up you’d look at me too, you’d give me goofy grin and shrug an apology. Every Sunday in summer, you son of a bitch, you’d make me love you.