You Can Tell an Ostrich Anything
When Dad died, I talked to an ostrich.
In the waiting room, an ostrich sat down.
“Who let this ostrich in?” I asked.
The janitor stared at me.
The ostrich stared at me.
The surgeon walked into the room. He tore off his white mask and put on a serious one.
“You don’t even have to say it,” I said.
The ostrich put his wing around me.
We didn’t have the greatest relationship, Dad and I. We didn’t talk. He treated me like shit. I loved him. I realized that after.
When he got sick, I walked closer to him, sat closer. We still didn’t talk, but…
Then he died.
“I could really use a friend,” I said in a letter. I mailed a copy of it to everyone I could think of.
No one got back to me.
One afternoon, there was a knock on the door.
I stepped out of bed. And got dressed.
I opened the door…
It was the ostrich.
He sat down on the sofa.
“I’ll make some coffee,” I said.
