Passing

by Jim Parks
100 words

Two tipoffs a kid wouldn't notice. We went to the cancer doctor. I was twelve.

Wearing a fedora and marching World War Two tall, he came out in fifteen minutes, grinning.

"Let's go to the zoo."

We didn't spend much time there.

"Place smells like cat piss."

For lunch, rye bread toasted, Spam fried, with mayonnaise. On the crackling radio, Eddie Fisher sang "Oh, My Papa."

He hugged me and cried.

At the airport, he said, "No tattoos." I asked why.

Your grandmother wouldn't like it.

"Why?"

"Why? Can't be buried in an Orthodox cemetery."

"I'm not Jewish."

"So, convert."