“Don’t sell the land!”
Those were the last words my father ever spoke before he
died. Sitting at his bedside in the hospital my sister and I looked at each
other in total confusion.
We had lived our entire lives in apartments growing up. So
had our father. As far as we knew he had been born in our grandmother’s
apartment on Lewis Street. So an utterance like this was a mystery.
After the funeral we got to work looking though every piece
of paper in my father’s possession. We looked in his office. We looked in his
apartment. We checked to see if he had a secret safety deposit box, or maybe
even a hidden ‘space’ in his apartment.
We took our time and poured over
everything looking for clues.
Nothing, nada, zilch.
For twenty years his dying words haunted us.
Then, one day, the mailman delivered an envelope with
familiar handwriting on it. I wasn’t sure what I was seeing and I was even less
sure I wanted to open it. It was distinctly my father’s handwriting.
After what seemed like an eternity of indecision I ripped it
open. One single sheet of paper folded in half.
Even from the grave my father could pull off one hell of a
practical joke!
*This has been a work of fiction.
Any similarities to
persons living or dead are purely coincidental.
