We buried Father sixteen days ago. He rose again after three. Should have stayed dead, I thought, but there he was. It’s getting hard to avoid the neighbors’ peeping eyes intruding our space.
“More tea?”
He moans.
“Marcie’s gotten her Social Studies up to a B.” I nudge the mug.
He grasps the steaming ceramic; his hand separates at the wrist. Damn, he’s desiccated all over the tablecloth.
I glance at his collar bone. Consider whether I have the internal fortitude to make the separation permanent, his head from his body and his existence from mine.
“Dad, we need to talk.”
Well-written – good work. Desiccating all over a tablecloth is so impolite.