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2007-10-02 - 11:25 a.m.

Fake:

The night my father died I found myself, drunk, standing in her parents' backyard with a pogo stick in my hand.

This is what I remember: my father, at the house, on the cot. My mom crying. My sister and her husband on the couch, talking softly. And the alcohol.

The alcohol was in the kitchen. I would use getting up for more as an excuse to get out of the room. Standing in the kitchen was a way for everything to be quiet. No talking or crying or barely breathing turning into shuddering gasps.

I was outside, on the back patio, standing near his open window when I heard my mom's crying getting loud. That's when I knew. So I began walking.

Somehow I opened the old storage shed, took out my pogo stick, and made it three blocks over and one block up. I don't remember much of that walk other than having to fend off a small dog with the pogo.

But then there I was. The last place I thought I would ever be again. On the wrap around driveway of her parents' house.

It was dark. Their lights were off. I began pogo-ing. I began attempting it, at least. I got in a few good jumps before I fell. When I rolled onto my back, there she was.

She was a ghost. She wasn't supposed to be there. She was suppose to be at school in Texas or working in Idaho, where ever the last place my mom told me was. But she was there.

"You're not so hot on that thing anymore," she said.

"My father's dead."

"That's a weak excuse."

"It's not. He is. Tonight."

Her face changed. Then it changed back. It was different from what I remembered. Still beautiful, but different. I turned onto my back and looked up through the branches.

"I'm sorry," she said.

I laid there. The door opened. Closed. I fell asleep.

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