"Carry the wreath, Henry, your mother is waiting."

Father's terse words spoken from the side of his mouth, muffled by his coat's collar and the stub of a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. He fancied himself a small-town Bogart. He was the only one.

Two days past christmas and we're out before dawn, getting decorations.

"For next year. Don't worry about it," he says, pulling the flask from the inside pocket. "Carry it another few blocks and maybe I'll give you a sip."

He drinks and staggers and coughs. The butt falls from his mouth and I crush it under my heel, staring at the side of his face. Nose too long, lips like bacon. Eyes the colour of shallow spring puddles. He offers the flask and I shake my head, pretending like I see something across the street.

He looks.

The wrong way.

Never saw the milk truck coming.