The Last Song He’ll Never Hear

Not a eulogy. A scream in the shape of a song I played on full blast, alone in the car.

You don’t have to finish this.
In fact, I hope you don’t.
I hope somewhere in the middle—right where the throat closes and the page stings—you stop.
Because if you make it all the way through,
that means you’ve lost someone too.

He loved pork and beans.
Not because he had to.
Because he wanted to.

The man could’ve eaten steak. Chops. Brisket.
But he liked the way the beans sat quiet in a bowl,
like they knew their place and didn’t need applause.

That was him.
Stoic. Solid.
A man who never explained himself,
because he didn’t owe the world an explanation.

I didn’t get it as a kid.
Why he never said “I’m proud of you.”
Why he never called just to check in.
Why he’d rather sit on the porch in silence than ask you how you were.

But now I see it—
he was asking.
With his presence.
With his quiet.
With every goddamn can of pork and beans he made sure was stocked in the pantry.

And today, he’s gone.
So I do the only thing that makes sense.

I blast Pork and Beans by Weezer in karaoke mode—
no lyrics, just the bones.
No one singing. Just the ghosts of words he’d never say anyway.
Just me, listening to it alone
knowing I’ll never hear his voice again.

I know I’ll sit in the car before the funeral. Alone.
Windows up. Music on.
Pork and Beans, full volume.
Not the lyrics. Just the scaffolding.
Just the hollow of the song where something used to live.
And me, holding the wheel like it’s the only thing keeping me from falling to pieces.
Trying not to cry so hard I can’t walk inside.