calla
"Go ahead," he said. "Open it."
"Your crazy." She rolled her eyes. "What do you mean an elephant?"
"I told you. An elephant walked out of the cabinet."
"A full sized one?"
"No," he said sarcastically. "A half sized elephant."
"Whatever," she said. "Fine, I'll open it."
It rumbled. It roared. It sputtered gasoline on the pot-hole filled road. But it worked. It was beautiful. He had gotten up at dawn for over a month and changed a piece of junk his father said would never drive again into a working machine.
"Didn't you hear what I just said?"
But he didn't, he just kept rattling and rattling, explaining why he was right and I was wrong, why I made everything worse.
"I could have married a different girl an
"Just until we can get things figured out," he promised.
"You said that last time."
"I know I did, but this time I really mean it." He gave her one last hug and walked out the door.
"You said that last time, too," she sighed. Down over twenty grand to her dead beat ex-boyfriend, Sierra had promised to put her foot down the next time he asked for money. But his pleading eyes and persuasive confidence forced her to yield.
Calista put her mouth on the straw of her orange juice. She was proud that her mother had finally decided to let her drink out of an open cup. The little girl blew into the straw as hard as she could. The orange juice bubbled and sprayed all over.
He didn't like sweeping. He saw it more as a woman's job even though he could easily be placed in that category, the illegitimate son of the head maid. Though there was a rumor that his father was the king. He didn't see it. He was a spitting image of his mother, or so people said.
"How do you like it?" his mother asked. His father stood beside her, anxiously awaiting his response.
Jackson wanted to be grateful, but he couldn't help it; his lips began to tremble and a tear rolled down his cheek.
"What's wrong?" asked his father. "You've wanted a bike for so long."
"It's," the little boy sobbed. "It's pink."
His father hung his head low. He'd been hoping his young son would overlook that it was his cousin Tanya's hand-me-down bicycle.
"More maroon than pink, Jackie," his mother said. "And it's all we could get."
His father put his hands in his pocket. "I'm sorry, son," he said. He scratched his head. "Maybe I could figure something out. I guess I could work late a few nights next week."
Jackson felt a surge of pity for his father. He was willing to work late so his son could have a bike. Jackson felt awful then, like he had taken advantage of his father.
"No, Dad," he said. He wiped a tear off his face. "I like it."
My mother lived for forty years, and all she left was a paper crane. If she had to die, I wish that it could have been something else that could stand for her existence - maybe an embroidery sample. But she did not sew.
Morals are simply convention. People can define the word as the wish, but there is no standing definition. While the current thought in the world of morality may be equality and rights for all, morals years ago would have been rights for those deserving and hail to the Catholic church.
When someone says "pretzel", most people think of the snack. Some poets might relate it to the twists and turns that make up life. Why don't we leave life as the problematic time in a human's existence and leave a pretzel as it is - a pretzel.
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