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.

*

“I don’t remember Dad ever playing with me. He was always too old. Even when he wasn’t. He loved me. He never said it. I said it a lot when I was a kid, but I didn’t mean it. Not really.”

You can tell an ostrich anything.

*

I couldn’t get out of bed. I couldn’t open my eyes. I kept falling asleep. I kept dreaming.

I dreamed I was the last person on Earth. I felt so homesick. Even though I was home.

I crawled into bed — in my dream. I lay there.

Something touched my hair. Something tousled it. Like Dad used to.

I woke up.

I looked over.

There was something on the pillow next to me.

An ostrich feather.

*

One morning…

I looked out the window.

The sky was blue. I hadn’t noticed that. Not for months.

I made breakfast.

I swept the floor.

As I opened the front door, I saw something. The shadow of the ostrich. On the lawn.

Just the shadow.

Then it was gone.

Rolli’s latest book is Plumstuff. Buy him a coffee.