I don’t doubt for a second that my old man would’ve thrown me out if I’d been like him. “It’s kind of nice they’ve all croaked,” he says after a moment, turning around. His face grows serious. “I’m probably not supposed to say that, am I?” I shrug, and neither of us speaks. Waiting for the fish to finish cooking. I’ve never thought of it that way before, but he’s right. I slide the spatula under the fish to keep them from sticking. It was good when my father died, but it also feels wrong to think like that. Ture is brave for saying that sort of thing.
