Ghosts of Adolescence Past
My father died when I was nineteen. Sudden heart attack over breakfast. He was gone by the time his head hit the table.
“Like turning off a light switch,” the coroner said, and snapped his fingers. “That quick.”
At the funeral, Dad’s boss cornered me to say that he told Richard to watch his diet, he told him to exercise, but Richard never listened, so here we are. I chased him out of the church and into the parking lot. “What the f**k does it matter now?” I screamed in his face. Before he closed his car door, he asked me to “be rational for once in your life.” In the snottiest tone. Who says that to someone whose dad just died?
But Dad isn’t dead. He’s sitting right here. He meets my stare with a perplexed smile.
“Happy birthday,” he says, and moves to stand
