“Why do you live with your grandparents?”
“My parents are dead.”
Half-truth.
Mom was.
Car accident.
I was one.
Dad was alive.
Technically.
Maybe.
He was an addict.
My grandparents took me.
That was it.
Last phone call:
Valentine’s Day.
He was high.
Hadn’t called in months.
His Facebook scattered with photos.
Friends.
Bars.
New Xbox.
Clothes.
No sign of me.
Six months.
At most.
He promised.
He would get better.
Get us an apartment.
Get me a dog.
Six months
turned into years.
“I hate you.
Don’t call me again.”
My last words.
I am fourteen,
looking down at my dad
in a coffin.
He wears a jersey
from the Facebook photos.
He broke his promise.
