dream Dad

from a dream:
The dean motioned me to sit before his sturdy mahogany desk.

"Claire, We have a little problem," he paused and fingered a single piece of folded paper. "Not the usual problem we have with students."

I stared back, speechless.

"It's a letter. From your father."

I frowned; my father couldn't be writing letters to the Dean.

"To Dean Emory," he began. "Let me read it all to you, it's not long......dean Emory, I'm writing in regards to my daughter, Claire Kuvok, who currently attends your art school. I am her father, I know Claire well, her personality and her talents. Her gradeschool pictures were scribbles; her junior high pictures continued to be eyesores. Claire is not an artist. She is an engineer; she hould be studying chemistry, physics and math. She shoudn't number among your students, unless you accept every student who applies."

I paused a long time, thinking.

"We don't pay too much attention to parental complaints," the deam continued. "But I thought that you should be made aware."

I coughed, rubbed my hands together, then spoke.

"I'll just remind him that he's dead," i said. "That'll keep him quiet. He hates to be reminded of the fact." i paused and shouted. "Dad, you're dead. D_E_A_D! Remember that - dead! Out of the letter writing business."

The dean gasped. You mean that your father is not alive?

"He's been dead for years. Eight years to be exact. Who the heck wrote this? Let me see it. Oh god! It's my brother's handwriting."

"Well, that explains it then. It's a practical joke."

"Only one problem. My brother lost both of his hands in a land mine explosion in Iraq."