by J.E. Tirey
Dad used to tell me jokes, most of them inappropriate for young girls. I only remember a few jokes he told me, like the one about a frayed knot rolling into a bar. Next to Crown Royal, I was Dad's best friend. Now he's in a jar in the earth beside his parents, consumed by fire and the drink. That was 13 years ago. The only things I inherited were his brown eyes and some old jokes that just aren't as funny without him.
J.E. Tirey is a frustrated fiction writer and sometime poet. Her poem, "Heat Index," is included in Maize magazine, former publication of the Writers Center of Indiana.