Saturday Morning


She is two years old and seething with anger and desire. Her arms stretch like chubby rubber bands being pulled upward and almost snapped by an invisible force she has no time to question.

Her eyes pour out raging waters. “Cacka,” she screams. “Cacka!”

High atop the flat peak of a rugged mountain lies the object she cannot live without. She slams her fists against its base and lets the curses fly.


When she sees me, she takes a quick, deep breath. Her head droops and her shoulders sag. “Cacka,” she whispers.

She watches as I scale the porcelain, wood, and stainless steel terrain to obtain everything that has ever eluded her.

“My god,” her eyes say, “he’s a giant.”

“Crackers,” I say as I hand her the sacred sleeve. “Eat those at the table.”

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