Quick write. Bet no one wll criticise this piece, after the background I described
"Hurry up Norman, it's cold," said my Mother. She would have stood there forever if I had asked her to.
"Smile everyone," I said, aiming my expensive camera at the group.
"Is that Norman?" queried my Dad.
"Is that it?" said my brother, keen to be away from the uncomfortable gathering.
"Yes, that's it. I am going to hit the road now. See you soon," I said.
"Bye Dad," my son responded, a hint of regret in his voice. I never hugged him goodbye.
In retrospect, it feels like a picture that captured a moment when everything changed. My Mother never saw me again, intoxicated by a cocktail of drugs, she couldn't have known I was there the week before she died. My Dad often called me George, my brothers name, as the Parkinson's disease took hold. Karl, my son, sees me more as a friend now than a father. My brother? It was always difficult to know what he thought as he rarely spoke.
Some might call it disfunctional, but it is my family.