“Your father is dying.” The room spins. I am momentarily at a loss for words. It’s like being punched in the gut. A few moments pass. “How long do you think he has?” The kind doctor pauses, before answering. “Not long. A few days at most”. In my head, I remember that It’s Tuesday afternoon.
“Will he make it to the weekend?” “I don’t think that’s likely.” He is sombre but kind. Above me, there is a skylight and through it I hear a screeching sound.
“It’s the seagulls. They’ve built a nest on our roof.” I think to myself that my father would like that.