Dead Father Stories


By Kelly Kotewa

On my return, they give me sympathy and African violets for my desk. Some tell their own dead father stories. The curious ask questions with forced solicitude.

“How old was he?”

“So young! Had he been ill?”

“Was it expected?”

He was a 66-year-old drunk. When his kidneys failed, I refused to give him one of mine. They chopped his legs off after the diabetes took hold. By the end, he did not remember his own name. Or mine. Or hers.

The questions stop. They drift back to their cubicles. I can float now without the heavy stones of pretending.
Kelly Kotewa writes “to maintain her sanity and good humor.”

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