4,5,6 Out of ‘trol.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
She sat on my lap, with those ringlet curls. Her pudgy fingers grasping my elbows, leaning back oh-so-far, scaring herself giddy.
She’d pull herself up, just to do it all over again.
I’d tickle her belly every time she stretched, her screams of glee contagious.
She pulled herself up quickly, looked me dead in the eye. As serious as a four year old could muster she asked, “If the bad guys go to The No (prison), where do all the good guys go?”
I explained simply, “The good guys live in the rest of the world. They’re free.”
She giggled, nearly maniacally.
“Sissy, that makes no sense.”
She leaned back again, waiting for me to tickle. When I didn’t right away she said,
“The goodens should be kept together. That’s why we have big houses.”
