It's Still Life

But Who’s Counting

Dad smoked his first
and last cigarette when he was 16.
He joined the Navy when he was 16, too.
Lied, he did. Said he was 18.
No birth certificate, he told the enlister,
which was true — every record in the city hall
burnt when the records room caught fire.
A few hours later, the whole building was gone.
Along with Dad’s birth certificate.
At least that was his story, and he stuck to it
with uncanny accuracy.
And it’s true, sometimes Dad would say
he was 60. Sometimes 70. People would say,
“oh you look so young for 80”,
and he’d beam bright as sunshine.
So when he died, nobody knew for sure
how old he was.
Maybe he was 82.
Maybe 92.
Could’ve been 102.
Sometimes you can wring the truth inside out,
and all that comes of it is something
to serve up with coffee and a donut.

written for Twiglet #26