Tuesday, April 24, 2007


Her babies were handkerchiefs. When they cried we wanted to blow our nose. When they were burped we wished to put them on our laps. She would have rather had bed sheets or tablecloths, but the doctor said her genes determined their fate. She washed and dried them daily, singing to them as they rolled in the dryer. They loved bleach, their favorite flavor, but hated the taste of fabric softener. She hoped they'd grow up to work in a fancy restaurant, wiping the mouths of rich princes and princesses. Their chances were small, though. Somehow she knew they'd serve in a T.G.I. Friday's or a Red Lobster, the places we enjoyed. We'd wipe fiesta egg roll stains and greasy butter from our middle class faces. We'd sometimes forget they existed, leaving them abandoned and cold to rub the gunk on our pants instead. If they fell on the floor we'd step on them, crunching them down. Waiters wouldn't find them unless they crawled on the floor.


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