Dad's Crying Again

The Mark Literary Review 2018

I don’t know why my father cries. I asked my mother and she
said to take my little ten year old tush into the living room and
ask my father. He was watching a ball game with his beloved
Tigers beating the hated Yankees. During the commercial, after
I got him another Schlitz, I said, “Dad, can I ask you a
question?”
“Sure,” he said. “Ask away.”
“How come you cry so much?”
He looked at me and his happy Tiger face morphed into a sad
no hitter face and the tears began to flow—slowly at first and
then wracking sobs. He handed me the Schlitz and walked
into his bedroom and closed the door. I could hear the springs
on his bed and his low moaning working up to loud wailing
and I ran out of the hall to my mother who was in the kitchen.
“Dad’s crying,” I said. “He was okay until I asked him why he
cries so much.”
“What did he say?” Mom asked.
“Nothing, he started crying again.”

A car horn blew and mom checked her makeup, adjusted her
dress and put on her hat. “Don’t wait up for me,” she said and
ran out of the house and down the walk to the waiting Buick.
She hopped in and the man in the car hugged her and she gave
him a long kiss and wrapped her arms around his neck.

They drove off and I sat down to watch the game but I
was too sad so I finished the Schlitz and went up to my
room, lay on the bed and, feeling like my father, the tears
started coming.

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