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As I stand looking down into the freshly dug earth that now contains a cream colored casket with a scattering of flowers on it, I wonder about all the things you told me while I was growing up. I remember the stories you used to tell me about all your relatives. My relatives too, I guess. You always bragged about your friends, the guys you played poker with, the people who visited from out-of-town, your neighbors who dropped in just to say hello. I wonder, now, where all these people were today. Was everyone too busy to say their final goodbyes to you, or, were all the stories you told me just more of your lies?

I remember being eight years old and finding that lipstick in your car. I asked if I could have it and you told me you bought it for Mom for her birthday. Later, when I asked her about it, she told me you never gave her any lipstick. This is the first of many lies I remember you telling.

What about when you came home late on my twelfth birthday? You told us you had to work late and when Mom called your job, your boss said you hadn't been in the whole day. I didn't understand at the time. I was just disappointed that you couldn't celebrate with the rest of the family.

Don't forget the time I came home from school early when I was fourteen and you had another woman in the house. You told me it was your secretary and asked me not to tell Mom. I never did, I believed you. The next week you moved out and not long after that you and Mom were divorced.

She let me come to see you on weekends and after I grew older, I still wanted to have a relationship with you. This despite all the things that I had seen and heard over the years. Once I started my own family, I had to cut down on some of my visits. Every time I called or came by, you were alone. You always said either that so and so had just left or that this friend or that were on their way over. You claimed to go to Aunt someone's house for the holidays. You sounded happy, and even after Mom died, you seemed okay. You had your friends, after all, I visited whenever I could and you seemed to enjoy your grandchildren.

Why did you have to keep up the lies? If only you had told me how lonely you were, I would have tried to visit more. I could have tried to get you together with some of my older co-workers for real card games. I would have asked your neighbors to check in on you and maybe you wouldn't have ended up lying dead in your bed for three days before someone found you.

Maybe, if you wouldn't have lied, I wouldn't be standing here at your funeral alone, looking down into the freshly dug earth that now contains a cream colored casket with a scattering of flowers on it.

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