Mathew Beconovich
Stories (1/0)
The Sound of Shattering Glass
My problems all started on the day that I found him dead. My then-girlfriend and I came home from vacation. We were up with friends in northern Minnesota, drinking and smoking a weekend away. We arrived to find my father and three of his friends hanging out, having just finished their fantasy draft. We all exchanged pleasantries. Lady and I went to bring our things downstairs into my basement. I recall the last exchange my dad and I would ever have, him grousing about a computer mouse he felt I had misplaced. I snapped back about how I had been gone that whole weekend and wouldn't know where the fuck it is. Me being tired from a long weekend and my pop being drunk and baked himself, I gave the terse nature of the conversation no further thought, at least at the time.
By Mathew Beconovich7 years ago in Families