i was on the couch, alone, halfway through a bag of pretzels
and a questionable bowl of indica when he showed up,
just sat down like the old days,
didn’t knock or shimmer or float—
just: thunk.
there he was.
“you look like shit,” he said.
“you’re dead,” i replied.
“doesn’t mean i can’t comment.”
i didn’t ask if he was a ghost.
figured if he was here,
i wasn’t going to argue technicalities.
“you still smoking all that dope?”
“helps with the anxiety,” i said.
“you didn’t have anxiety when you were seven
and told your teacher that frogs were just unemployed princes.”
“lot’s changed since then.”
he looked around my one-bedroom apartment
like it was a crime scene.
“you ever think of getting a real job?”
“i’ve had real jobs.
they made me feel like drywall with a heartbeat.”
he nodded.
“fair.”
“what’s it like over there?” i asked.
“like jury duty
but with accordion music.”
“so, not heaven.”
“depends who you ask.”
“you think i’m wasting my life?”
he didn’t answer.
just reached over, took a pretzel.
“why can’t i stay with a woman?” i asked.
“you ever try staying with yourself?”
“that sounds like therapy talk.”
“i’ve had time to think.”
we sat in silence for a while.
the kind you get when all the other noises
take a cigarette break.
finally, i asked:
“are you even real?
or just a projection from the bottom of this bowl
and the bad decision i made at 2 a.m. last night?”
he smiled.
“does it matter?”
“i guess not.”
he stood up, patted me on the shoulder.
“listen, kid. no one gets it right.
most folks just keep walking in the dark
hoping they don’t step in anything permanent.”
he walked to the door.
“next time, buy the good weed.”
then he was gone.
just like that.
i sat there for a long time
staring at the dent he left on the couch.
“thanks, dad,” i said.
“i miss you.”
and for a second
the room didn’t feel empty.
