The Whimsical

I was doing my homework when my dad leaned inside.

“Hi,” he said, and he immediately receded behind the half-open door. I could only see a part of him.

“Hi dad, what’s up?”

“Nothing much, I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

“I’m doing good. Yourself?”

“Good, good,” he said, hiding behind the door even more. “How’s school.”

“Okay, I guess. I have this history test tomorrow. Mr. Dog says it’s gonna be sixty per cent of our final grade.”

“Mr. Dog, huh?”

“Yeah, his name is John Running Dog. Our history teacher is Native American. How come you don’t know that?”

“I, uhm, I don’t know why,” I could only see one of his eyes now.

“Dad, are you okay?”

“I’m fine son. Just fine,” he sounded faint and weak.

“Anyway, I have to study, dad. I’ll talk to you at dinner, okay?”

“Fine, son. Everything is fine.”

That was the last time I ever spoke to, or even saw my dad.

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