2004-04-03|4:41 p.m.
The five-year-old had visited her father every week in prison, and each time she had brought him a crayon drawing but each time the guards had confiscated it. �No pictures of people!� they shouted the first time, so then the little girl brought a picture of the family dog. �No pictures of animals!� the guards commanded, so the third time the child brought a picture of birds. But still no luck: �We said no animals�birds are animals.� Finally the girl brought a picture of a forest and the guard let her through. The father, who was in prison for criticizing the regime, was overjoyed. �What a beautiful picture!� he exclaimed. �The trees, the branches, the leaves�and what are these round circles in the trees. Fruit?� �Shh,� whispered the little girl fearfully. �Those are the eyes of the birds. They�re hiding.�
mike: sue, the assistant manager here, was showing this old couple around the complex, and there was a cute girl in the pool, and the husband said "who's that in the pool?" and sue says "another tenant" and he says "is she married??" and sue says, "no, but you are!"
For reasons I may explain at another date, my mom�s father, my grandfather, and I grew apart as I grew older. I was bitter against him; so much so, I did not attend his funeral. The anniversary date of his death (and coincidentally of the same day of his son�s) is in the near future.
I have since forgiven him. Death requires that.
I think back on fonder memories of him. One in particular has been frequenting my mind:
When I was younger, I had a purse that was black or dark blue, round, plastic, and in the center of the outside it had a small doll trapped behind some clear, window-like guard. The purse was okay in my mind, but I adored the doll inside. She was tiny, plastic and wore a dress. All that I wanted to do was play with her. It seemed cruel to me that she was trapped inside as a decoration to a purse. So, I�d ask every adult, with hopes that one would grant my request, if they�d free her. And every single one refused.
�You�ll destroy the purse.� I�d pause and think of that scenario.
�I don�t care. I�d rather have her.�
�But you have her. And you have the purse.�
They didn�t get it. So, one day I went to my grandpa sitting on the porch smoking his �last� cigarette. I asked him and then told him what everyone had told me. And because he was fond of winning my affection, he pulled out his pocket knife and cut through the plastic. Holding the newly cut plastic back, he let me dig my small hands into the purse and pull out my girl.
�Don�t tell anyone.�
�I won�t Grandpa.� I kissed him and ran off.
The purse was stupid anyway.