Mousetrap
The children are putting together a giant mousetrap in the living room. We haven’t got up to check, but we think that’s what they’re doing. A big red ramp passes by and cages of chickens laying giant eggs. What’s with the fowl, mama? I ask my wife, but she just changes the channel. A lifestyles show. Telling people what to wear. Then behind me I see some workmen wheel in an anvil and some pulleys and I tell mama, the game’s a lot different than I remember as a kid. I say, again, it’s a whole lot weirder than I recall. She just unfolds the paper and does a crossword puzzle. A thirteen-letter word for the process of killing vermin? she asks. I don’t know, but I sure smell something good in the living room. It must be brussel sprouts and liver, but the kids don’t like that. Then a guillotine is wheeled by with giant cardboard cut-outs of adult-sized human figures. Does that look like your face on that cutout? I ask mama. But she asks, what’s a nine letter word for the murder of one’s progenitors? Then I remember the time at the beach when we all buried each other in sand. We saw dirty blue surf pound over our heads and the sun kept the clouds apart. A ferry found us floating, and we toweled off onboard, I hugged you all tight as the water spilled out our lungs. We were so happy we were breathing and alive. Then I say mama, would you like some liver and brussels? And she says, someone’s got to go first, honey, someone’s got to go first. She goes back to a puzzle she can’t solve. I just go.