**Update – 7/26/2013 – Please note this is a bit of flash fiction I wrote. My own beloved, Papa, is home.
Papa died in the morning and in the modern fashion he was buried two weeks later on a muggy afternoon ignoring every command he gave. People wept, wailed and their eyes were dry before they hit the parking lot. His wife, children and grandchildren huddled by the grave until the director had them leave. Insurance purposes, he said.
He said it, but it was a lie.
Now you have Papa’s liver and I have to tell you something. He was an alcoholic. Drank a twelve pack a night sometimes more if his team was losing, it was just cheap beer, Milwaukee’s Best, mind you, but the liver really doesn’t care if you drink the good stuff or not. They should have told you as well that it was harvested just past the expiration date; meaning Papa was cold when they cut him open. So really I am doing you a favor.
Yes, a favor. This liver won’t have lasted. It has already begun to poison you.
Now, Papa, he wanted to be cremated Viking style on the Indian River and all I could afford was this old dingy which I am not even sure will burn.
So breathe deep. I am told asphyxiation is like dying in your sleep.
Papa, he died in his sleep.