Day 522

A letter came to you from your estranged father, said he needed to talk to you desperately.
It gave you his address and a time, expecting you to go there.
Your only question was whose sick joke this was.
Bastard died eight years ago yet this was dated to three days earlier.

Out of anger you went along to the appointment, just to get at whoever set up this nonsense.
Probably some PPI bollocks or another relative trying to get the "money" he left behind.
You'd made it public knowledge that the old sod had died face down in a gutter.
Drunk his cash away in some city you'd never heard of.

As you approached the bus shelter in the middle of a B-road in the middle of some fields you
mentally prepared to yell at whichever relation or lawyer or whatever had done this.
But perhaps it was just the fresh grief talking.
You hoped you wouldn't have to wait for long.

The road was absolutely desolate apart from your car, nothing but fields for miles around.
According to your phone your "dad" was running late.
You were about to give up entirely after waiting for well over an hour until you heard movement.
Distinct shuffling noises were coming from behind you, within the barley fields.

You sat utterly still and waited, hoping and dreading it actually being your father.
A figure wearing his favourite sweatshirt sat down heavily next to you on the small wooden bench.
Their face was turned away from you but you still recognised the silhouette.
His face was as gaunt as it had been the day you identified him in the morgue.

A lot about him reminded you of that day.
You'd buried him in that same sweatshirt with that same bloodstain on the left sleeve.
Couldn't afford any new clothing as well as a funeral and he had nothing else either.
You had just enough for a burial plot and basic headstone, not even a coffin.

He wasn't coated in dirt - at least his clothes weren't - though his hands were caked in it.
Looked like his fingertips were torn off too.
He had yet to say a word, just reached out slowly and held your hand in silence.
Never even looked at you, just sat there with you until the sun went down.

You must have dozed off at some point, when you looked around for him you were alone again.
All he left behind was dirt on your hand and a faint earthy smell mixed with his favourite beer.
As you got back in your car, still somewhat in a daze you saw a letter on your windshield.
All it said, in his same sprawling writing was thank you.