COMPLETED
Josephine Lightfoot is the daughter of Joseph Lightfoot, an award winning songwriter. The brunette spent her time as a kid learning to play the piano, violin, and guitar. When it comes to music she's hard to impress, and keeps her dearly b...
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Seattle, WA Late fall of 2000 1.5 Years Later
"To you all, my father was Joseph Lightfoot, award winning songwriter, benefactor, humanitarian." I take a breathe, my throat tightening. I do my best to avoid the hundreds of eyes on me. "To me he was something else. My father was sunlight, a glass of whiskey after a long day." My hands shake and the sheet of paper, the speech I had prepared trembles in my hand.
"My father was a burning Lucky Strike when he thought I was asleep for the night, the sound of pen on paper. My father was my favorite melody hummed out loud. He was laughter, a day walking the streets of Seattle in November when it was cold enough to freeze your hands. He was a father, mother, brother, and sister because I had none."
A tear rolls down my cheek and I take a pause to look around. These people, these strangers loved him and I can feel that love standing stand at the podium. It radiates from the seats, filling my chest. His casket lays just behind me and I turn now to look even though it breaks my heart to do so. I'm alone, now. Truly.
When I look back at the audience in front of me, all of the faces seem to run together in shades of black. The last few days have been nothing more than a blur.
I'm wrapped in a thick black sweater, but even that can't warm the chill in my bones. The outdoor funeral had all been my father's idea. It was written out in his will exactly how he wanted it. The sun beats down and the smell of turning leaves fills the air. My father loved the fall.
It was a heart attack that took my only family from me. It was sudden, unpredictable. Or so the doctors told me. There was no way we could have caught the signs before it turned fatal. More tears fall and dampen the sheet of paper. I'd torn it out of his favorite notebook, the one filled with half baked ideas and strings of phrases that sounded like poetry. I swallow my emotions to make it through the eulogy.
"He was everything to me and vice versa. My father gave me my greatest gift – my love for art in every form. My father was art himself. He had a gifted mind that touched millions and I'm honored to have had him teach me all I know. Joseph Lightfoot will live in the masterpieces he created. He will live in my heart, your hearts, all of us until we join him in his peace." I bow my head and turn for the stairs.
As the next person makes their way to the podium to say their farewell, I make my way down the aisle before the pain in my chest can consume me.
This is it, this is goodbye.
I reach a hand to cover my mouth as the dam bursts and the tears refuse to be staunched any longer. Halfway through the crowd, someone latches onto my wrist and I'm pulled out of the downward spiral by a pair of cerulean eyes staring up from their seat. Clear as the ocean. Deep as it, too.
"Jo," Chris whispers my name and stands, seeing my strength falter. Loss has become second nature, but the familiarity does little to ease the ache.
