Diana Kurniawan

Legend told, one mid-day in Calcutta, India, in a small street where the lepers slept and the homeless wept, Mother Teresa came to them to tell stories of mankind.

 

"Mankind is definitely a strange species, all to ourselves," she said.  "On crucial times, although God is watching, we would not acknowledge Him. Thus, committing our greatest sins," she told with such humility, inviting the people to learn from one another.

 

"Do you think man would ever stop, Mother Teresa?" asked a man.

 

"A long time ago, a man thought something very small would help," said Mother Teresa, "this man created a comma (,)."

 

"Did it mean anything to us at the time?" the same man asked the question.

 

"By Jove, it has!" said Mother Teresa, as she was pleased by his response to her story. "A comma, symbolizes a slight rest in our manners of speech." She smiled at him, and opened her right palm. "We seldom pay attention to our own speech and dialects. But, this comma made it so, that we would rest to take note of our words," said Mother Teresa to him.

 

"What does it look like?" Another man shouted.

 

"It is a small brush stroke of an India ink, resembling the crescent moon," said Mother Teresa, as she kneeled towards a water puddle on the street to touch it, and stroked the speck of water to a dry wall to illustrate the crescent moon comma.

 

"That is too simple, madam!" shouted the man, as a protest to such a small example.

 

"It is always the simple things in life, such as: clean air, water, and true love that makes us alive," said Mother Teresa to her lovely friends.

 

"May we learn from you, Mother Teresa?" shouted another man from the crowd of people, listening to her story and wisdom.

 

"Of all things, may we all learn good things from one another," said Mother Teresa. She humbly bowed and smiled at him, as the crowds became larger from the gathering of people.

 

"Thank you, and we love you Mother Teresa!" shouted a man she had helped in the past with support, because he felt someone cared to inform him.

 

"Do you have another story?" asked a young man.

 

"I have not yet finished, my love," said Mother Teresa, as she began to laugh. "This time, I know you would like to see a most simple invention." Mother Teresa daubed a spot onto the dry wall again, and said, "This is a dot (.) or a period."

 

"Is this for another pause?" questioned a young woman.

 

"This is for a full stop, to completely pause between our speech," said Mother Teresa, as she became silent for a moment, to symbolize the complete pause she spoke about.

 

"Is this common knowledge, Mother Teresa?" shouted the young woman.

 

"Is this by the Romans?" everyone asked one another.

 

"Does not matter whether Greeks, nor Romans, we have another most unique invention," Mother Teresa said, but this time there was a long silence that gave her a few moments to think before she spoke.

 

"The Greeks have known this too?" asked a young man, who was thirsty for knowledge.

 

"The latest invention is called "semi-colon (;)," she said, "it is for a minor stop between our speech but for differing ideas or perceptions."

 

This time, she spots the dot on the dry wall, along with the stroke of the crescent moon comma, directly underneath.

 

"How amazing Mother Teresa! Mankind invented the most ingenious ways to learn," said the young man, who was completely amazed by new information.

 

"We are greatly intelligent!" said a young woman, who smiled from ear to ear.

 

"We are still lesser than God, my children," said Mother Teresa, who readied to leave the gathering.

 

"Although I know many of you have been enlightened, I still believe it is still the simple things in life we are to be proud of," said Mother Teresa, as she looked down towards the water puddle on the ground, wishing for simplicity of bare necessities for the people she cared for.

 

The people in the crowd began to weep because they were honored by her presence.  They saw how humble, intelligent, and kind her heart shined amongst them on that day.

 

"Remember how small and simple these inventions are.  Yet, they are strong enough to educate us; to learn from one another," she softly uttered, to a little Indian boy as she tucked his stranded curls away from his face, behind his ear.

 

Mother Teresa continued, "I must go now, there are still so much work to be done," as she walked towards another path.

 

The crowd of people subsided and the people of Calcutta still remembered this story, of how one day Mother Teresa taught the world to enjoy life together while learning from each other at its present moment.

 

The End.

 

Just write.

 

If I stop and think, I'd feel prickles inside my gut and they travel up to my esophagus, all the way to my brain and it stops my receptors. I stare at space and nothing will move inside my body, as my tongue freezes and I will mute for as long as I keep thinking of yesterday. The triggers come in so many forms, without warning and often because I yearn so much. For love, for babies, for cuddles with a handsome bear or being in a home full of children of my own. Often, I feel shame for it, because I should contain my emotions and swear it to secrecy to avoid vulnerability to the outside world. 

 

If I stop and think about what happen with him and feel sad about it, the prickles excites sad memories that somehow my Dad can feel miles away and his eyes moistens as he tells me, "I'm still here, honey. And I love you." I wonder about me as a daughter and as a woman, if I make my parents proud and my siblings happy. Some days, I cry, and cry, and cry, because I feel I could do better. The prickles comes down to my stomach again, and my gut tells me, "you have a long way to go. Just keep going, keep working, keep hoping, and keep praying." That's all I can do, as I take it as it comes.

 

If I stop and rest for too long, my body slumps and the bones in my flesh gravitates to my couch and down goes my energy. It creates a habit that is so difficult to break because it creates a thick wall that stops my running from starting. If I let it be, this lazy bones becomes fragile and old, aging and brittle as my hair greys and silvers, and my face is of a bride with white hair. I become a nightmare and even during Christmas, my spirit will not be in joy.

 

If I keep going, with a bit of a rest, but keeping at it, not letting go, striving for it and knocking at God's door. I enter a realm where those prickles becomes energy and it spreads throughout my body, emerging out of my skin with tiny needles flying out, breaking away stale air. If I don't stop to think so much, I focus on my now and live my present for each moment at a time. I will walk my pace and I don't anticipate the future as I try to work my best. The triggers will always be there and the prickles comes up to haunt me sometimes as I keep moving with a gait on a mission. I stop caring about what Satan says about me and the thoughts of what might be. I will not stop to think, only to rest of a moment, even with a tired body.

 

Giving it my all, one day a time. Just write.

Accounting could be so cruel some days, with extracts of numbers on the Excel spreadsheets and Sharepoint glitches nauseating his brain. Garrett took one last breath before he closed his briefcase, breathed in and out, and closed his eyes. He took the last scraps of paper from today's balancing budget and tossed them into the recycling bin under his desk.

 

He closed the door to his small accounting firm that he kept up after 20 years. With some clients he made a stabile relationship with, to pay off his rent for the office every month on time. This firm was his bread and butter since he married Cindy in 1992, with just a small business loan they signed up together. He was the boss, the accountant, the clerk and janitor for New Horizons, LLC. Who needed anyone else, when you've got two arms and two legs to do everything yourself? Cindy never understood why he was never home, so she left in 2000, because Jenna, their daughter, wasn't there anymore either. Long story.

 

He got out of the building five minutes since he turned off the computer. He held his briefcase under his armpits and his lunch bag in his right hand. He searched his pants pocket for his keys with his left, opened the car door, tossed his lunch bag and briefcase to the passenger seat, and started the car. His stomach fit snug underneath the driver's wheel and his weight sunk the car an inch down to the Earth.

 

Forty-five wasn't bad, he thought. I looked 60 but younger in reality.

 

With greying hair, Garrett's older features gave respect out on the streets, because since he last saw Jenna, he has been searching for her all around the streets in Los Angeles, daily, sometimes taking trips on weekends to find her at the outskirts towards Las Vegas.

 

I gotta be there by six, or there will be no parking anywhere, his mind kept working.

 

Monterey Park was close to Los Angeles that he took the side streets on Valley Boulevard and hopped on the 10 West Freeway to get to 101 North towards Cahuenga Boulevard and got off Hollywood. The trip took the usual hour and some twenty minutes, but there was no heavy bumper to bumper, just the overflow and hold ups at the lights. The sky was lavender with pink rays on sunset, but the smog stunk on the street level.

 

Garrett turned left on Hollywood Blvd and drove into a semi-residential street, just before Sunset. He parked a block away from the strip and took out his handicap sticker and his usual note that said, "Out of gas, please don't tow. BRB in 30 minutes." Garrett's thrifty, not stupid. Parking was costly and he'd never stay more than 30 minutes per day. Besides, this area was on the way home to the Valley, so this daily mission was not allowed to cost him more than the pamphlets he was about to give out.

 

Women of the night, was Garrett's main mission since Jenna left home. To look for her and to give out as much pamphlet about the Restitution Program nearby his work in Monterey Park. The program transformed women who went through sex trafficking or prostitution, to change their behavior, lifestyle and perhaps, instilled education for the long run.

 

Word had it, there were more women in the congregation who enrolled in the program last year than ever before, at 25 women. This was his third year doing these daily missions and his 10th year anniversary working for them as their main accountant. Salvation was of the Lord's, or as Garrett liked to say, "Payback."

 

He walked to the strip with his messy hair from sweat and heat. It was 90 degrees again in November, but who's complaining. He had about 10 pamphlets, just in case it was a good night. There were some girls in front of him, standing in their heels and tight leather pants. One woman had long finger nails, holding a cigarette, with silky black hair to her butt and wearing an ankle bracelet. Her ankle bracelet made twinkling sounds like a row of charm bells.

 

"You handsome man. What's your name, mister?" she said. There was a younger girl beside her.

 

"Garrett, and yours?"  He smiled and ready to pass out the goods. He turned the pamphlets over and she noticed.

 

"Ah, man! You a priest or somethin'?" she said as she rolled her eyes.

 

"Do I have a robe on?" Garrett said.

 

"Oh, so you a customer then? Let's go then. What you want, mister?" said the woman, smiling with one leg in front of the other, posing with her hand on her waist. "I'm cuter. She's younger. You pick." The younger girl snatched her cigarette and walked off as Garrett hurried after her.

 

"No, No, don't leave. I want you, too," said Garrett. "You're both gorgeous girls. I'm sorry. I'm not a customer. I just want to talk for a minute."

 

"You are a priest. Damn!" said the girl with silky hair. "I thought I was gonna get lucky."

 

"You need help or something, mister?" asked the younger girl.

 

"Yes, but not what you think. Here, I want to give you both this. I'm helping young women like you," said Garrett. "Take one, just read it, please. You can read, right?"

 

"Yeah! What you think? We dumb?" said the younger girl. "I finished high school. GED, but still finished. Stupid, pamphlet. What is this?"

 

"It's not stupid. Read it. Please," said Garrett, with his eyes pleading.

 

"Magdalena Res-prostution Program," said the woman with long silky hair.

 

"It's restitution. It's a program for young girls and adults. To get off the street," said Garrett. His eyes widened. "They take care of you there, and you can stop working on the street, and get a good job in the future."

 

"Yeah? Then get married, with someone handsome like you?" said the woman with long silky black hair. "You single or married, or in an open relationship, or what?"

 

"Divorced, but I'm in love with someone," said Garrett.

 

"Who she?" said the younger girl, "She cuter than my girl here?"

 

"No, not cuter, but sweeter. Very sweet. She is the one who turned me around," said Garrett. He laughed and felt like Harrison Ford for a second, because two beautiful girls just took an interest, even if it was just in a simple hook-up sort of way.

 

"So you work with her? She work with you?" said the girl with the ankle bracelet.

 

"I work for her. Yes. Come to the program. Can you get there, to this address?" Garrett asked eagerly, pointing to the address on the pamphlet.

 

"Yeah, I know where it's at. I got a iPhone," said the younger girl with the cigarette in her mouth, lighting it, smoking it, and puffing it.

 

"Come there, and you can get better. So you won't have to turn tricks anymore," Garrett said.

 

"You got a girl? A daughter? Because you sound like a father," said the girl with the cigarette.

 

"Jenna, that's who I'm in love with," said Garrett. "We haven't found her since she was fifteen. She was mad at me because my wife and I divorced. So, she never came home from school."

 

"What happened?" the girl with the long black hair asked. Her eyes grew concerned with her hands on her hips, with angry eyes at Garrett.

 

"I don't know," said Garrett. "I hope I'll see her again one day."

 

"You do this to find her probably, huh?" asked the younger girl.

 

"How old are you?" asked Garrett. "She might be your age." He took out his wallet and slides out a small photograph of Jenna, when she was in high school.

 

"Wow, she's a brunette," said the woman with the ankle bracelet. "She's my age, probably. How long has it been?"

 

"Since 2000," said Garrett. "She'd be in her thirties by now."

 

"Nope, don't know anyone like her that age. We don't talk to no one out of this strip. Territory business. Our man won't let us do that," said the woman with the ankle bracelet.

 

"What's your name?" asked Garrett.

 

"Yuki," she said. "She's Misha. We pretty, huh?"

 

"Yes, very pretty," said Garrett. "We have girls all ages, please come."

 

"Why you so nice?" asked Misha, the younger girl.

 

"I don't know. I guess a part of me wants to see if I'd find Jenna one day or if I can help someone at the same time," said Garrett.

 

"So, you come here all the time? Why not Las Vegas? Plenty there," said Yuki.

 

"Closer to home, and I can do it more often," said Garrett. "Please come, please. They can help you there. Promise. Leave your man. Just bolt."

 

"Misha and I can go this weekend. We have clients waiting, but we can go in the morning. I can go in the morning?" said Yuki to Misha.

 

"Please come anytime. The office is open from 8 to 6, everyday and on weekends too. There are free foods and gift certificates to Starbucks," said Garrett.

 

"Hell yeah! I can go for the Starbucks," said Misha, dropping the burnt cigarette on the sidewalk, twisting her left foot on the bud.

 

"We go, we like you," said Yuki, giggling.

 

Garrett smiled with teary eyes, immediately hugging Yuki as his pamphlets slipped out of his hands and fell on the sidewalk.

 

"Careful! Careful, old man. Gosh, it's just a date," said Misha. Yuki giggled.

 

Garrett stooped down to the ground and picked up his pamphlets, taking each one in a hurry. "I gotta go back to the car," he said. 

 

One more soul at least, with a hope for two at the same time, he thought. Yuki and Misha, those names were memorized in his mind.

 

"Okay, we promise to go. You better show up," said Yuki, poking Garrett on his stomach. He giggled and straightened out his hair. He felt his heart jumped for a minute.

 

"Okay. We'll talk about Maria Magdalena, my girlfriend," said Garrett. Handing another pamphlet to Yuki.

 

"I guess, mister," said Yuki, bitterly taking the pamphlet.

 

"Thank you," said Garrett. "You'll love her." He gave Misha a hug and walked back to the car. He turned around to give them a wave goodbye and saw the girls reading the pamphlet together.  He overheard Misha said, "Free Starbucks."

 

Garrett cried silently, because another day he didn't find Jenna, might meant she was alive somewhere. He found his car in one piece with the note still on it and not a parking ticket in sight. "Phew, risky business," he said.

 

Just write.

Definitely wasn't the same as my love for sticky rice. The sweet glutinous rice with sprinkles of sugar and salted peanuts was something of a special occasions when my Mom and I would go to Denver's Little Vietnam. No. This wasn't the same as that. It started with a rush for a whole day at work, and as I got home, I collapsed on the sofa and wanted lunch. Truthfully, I gravitate towards savory, but the whole morning and even in the afternoon, I craved its bitter and cream, because it drove me to the computer to type out my blog and made me want to write for the rest of the evening. 

 

I would drive for it, search for it, Google Mapped it and each time I was overwhelmed, I craved it; and it drove me to write. At first I wasn't sure if it was the drink or my writing, but it was Starbuck's Half-calf Americano. But, it wasn't just the drink, it was the conversation. Yeah, I know...what a loser, but being honest, it was my mind's medicine. I stuck to the legal stuff, and aside from my own doses of mental health vitamins, I self-prescribed myself Starbucks, as necessary. 

 

The self-gratification gave me the energy, and the baristas were my bartender with greetings, daily conversations on virtually any subject we randomly thought of, and at times, healing wisdom. As my babies at a current particular Starbucks, India and Brandon, often did for me, their conversations were gestures of kindness. I have no idea how many times I divulged too much, but it was often at Starbucks. I drove to it, after a hard day at work or just to get away for a moment, and talked for a minute and ordered my halfie Americano. I came out with a sense of gratitude, beyond my own expectations. Joy, friendships, a crush or two, and a healthier mindset. 

 

I was never sure if this was true love, but every Christmas I prayed for each experience at my local Starbucks to be a joyful one. I believe this was true love as I could have it now, because it beats being alone. It will always be unconditional, and I will always treat Starbucks with deep love. This Christmas, even alone, I will still be in love, just not with a significant other, but with a franchise and all of its peoples. Why not?

 

Just write. 

All of my life, I saw the devil's hands of injustice played upon the fragile lives of the poor and also in the lives of my family. Everyone thought I was born into privilege by the color of my skin and from the historical lineage of my ancestors, but not a lot of people knew how hard we worked. 

 

At face value, others saw my face and defined me by the generalization of my features. The serious oval, boring black hair, indifferent eye brows, and round nose of a glutton. There was so much criticism of me, that prejudice was ingrained inside my life. I was seldom told I was beautiful or loving, so growing up, I tried to become something I desired, a woman with a gorgeous face and heart. Some days, I felt I failed, and thought I haven't done enough.

 

Grace never told me that I deserved to work for beauty or kindness. It told me that I was as I am, of grace and beauty. This gave me profound comfort and healing. Knowing I was loved and accepted, although the world said I was nothing special. Grace sought me during my ugly crying and lifted me as if I was a pure dove, letting me fly to perch on a rose. The thoughts of the injustices, unfairness in life, flaws of my self-criticisms, and just being plainly harsh on myself felt so yesterday. It wasn't something I wanted to keep. Grace threw it away, into the netherworld where those things belonged.

 

Some days I found it hard to think upon grace and not upon judgements. Some days, I fell into the well of self-pity, but there I found the grace I needed, unexpectedly and let it comforted me. Letting grace entered my soul was so right that all the wrongs disappeared, even when I was alone. I felt beautiful inside the arms of grace.

 

Grace was so beautiful, and I was born out of it.

 

Just write.

In less than a month, Christmas is upon us and we will face the arrival of the new year. My heart still yearns for a love true to my soul and I presume so does the rest of the world full of survivors. With each yearn of a hug now foreign from our normal everyday because of the global pandemic, I bless the world with a love story.

 

Each concoction of a fictional fairytale on true love, I will let it soar into the night's sky, in prayers for the maker of heaven and Earth to manifest for a life on this planet. It might not be perfect, with snowflakes or candies and roses, but it will be exceptional to the traditional expectations on a boy meets girl fable. 

 

The world needs a story worth telling, of a woman who we would never expect to find true love to meet a God send. It might not be realistic, nor at all possible, but why not? Why is it wrong for the world to witness true love in unexpected ways to a soul unexpected to survive? Won't it be novel? Won't it be lovely?

 

If a woman who believes in romance and true love to find it, it would be nice. But, all too common a story for a pretty woman to find what she's looking for. Why not a survivor with the most unworthy and grueling life to find a miracle. I know her, and it's not about me, but about a friend, and her miracle isn't at all two feet with a torso or a bank account. Her true love or miracle is found from something extra-ordinary, almost the way my life has been. Serendipitous. 

 

Might I say, true love is not always between humans, and it could very well be with an X-Box, but why discount that truth?

 

For now, I shall brew upon a story as soon as I find a conclusion to my short excerpt. In the mean time, dream and create, live and love.

 

Just write.

 

I saw a kitchen, and I cooked a home made meal. It was potato salad and bologna sandwiches, with three little kids around the table next to the sink. The space was tight, with a staircase across from the sink, and the kids were getting ready to put on the galoshes and coats. Princess Diana was next to me, and she fixed the sandwiches and told me, "Don't forget to drink the teas, it's the best thing in Winters."

 

I couldn't touch my own hands and I felt as an invisible spirit, but I saw my feet and white cotton long pajama. "Could I go with you?" I asked her. She said, "It's a field trip and you're to stay inside this house, and rest. Drink the tea, Diana. Don't forget," said Princess Diana. I loved the sound of her voice, soft and demure, lulling me to sleep. She told me that the children were hers, and she was their nanny, and the streets outside were cobbled stones with tall houses with slim spaces and old architecture. "But this is not Great Britain. It's somewhere else, and you won't know until later when I come back."

 

I slept with my head on the table, but left my handkerchief on the kitchen counter. My spirit came out of my body, and my hair was very long, with highlights, much the way it was now. The tea must be infused with valerian, and I didn't mind. The children were laughing outside as I softly overheard. "Have a good time while you are sleeping, Diana. Each night, and sleep comfortably even by yourself. It is the greatest gift," I heard her yelled outside of the door. I was still asleep with my head on the table, but my spirit watched the whole scene. 

 

The morning alarm went off, and I woke up from my dreamy state and had to go to work. I won't know what the dream meant, but it was peaceful and I loved it.

 

Just write.

As I jotted down memories of my triumphs and progress, I also remembered the struggles I went through. As an immigrant, I knew five other Indonesian immigrant women whom I met at random and from my close communities, who were assaulted and silenced. They only had visas and awaited their green cards, and I was only a U.S. Citizen for a year at the time. But, I was assaulted the first time when I had a green card as well. The second time I was assaulted, and I suspected they were connected, I was told "welcome to America," by the detective who took my case and told me that "it's not that I don't believe you, you had no evidence against this nice man." Both men who assaulted me were American citizens, priviledged and from well known families.

 

I wondered how many immigrant women were silenced because they were not U.S. Citizens and how many of them didn't receive any resources. I recalled applying for Medi-Cal twice because the first time, I was rejected and I believed it was because of my skin color. As an Asian woman, the system conglomerates all Asian races as one and the discrimination towards us because of the model minority myth gave the social services system a bias against me. I was not only silenced, I was ignored and told that based on my race, I didn't deserve the help.

 

I began to notice how the system became more discriminatory towards me, because I was an Indonesian immigrant, and because I was newly naturalized. I felt I was used as a weapon for the social problem of the United States to resolve the inequality in poverty through furthering my demise by the system. The way the police department handled my case, showed me that they could careless if I had died because I was Asian and Asians were not supposed to be raped; so they denied my case and closed it. The same went with disability and mental health services, as I applied twice and only got the mental health services and not the disability. If I was an immigrant of another race, would I have gotten the resources? This was California, where it was supposed to be more diverse. I felt as a sacrifice to even out the statistics to gratify other minority groups, and so did my fellow Indonesian immigrant survivors. I realized that there were more of us who were survivors who were silenced as sexual assault became more and more common in the United States and around the world.

 

The statistics often lied, because there were more Asians than truly reported. I knew from personal experience, but why did the system silenced us?

 

Just write.

Jolts woke me up at two in the morning and the presence of Shiva loomed over me. I shook under my blankets, fearful of more tremors from persecutions in my past. A name came up, a man who took me to a bar and left me as fresh meat in the front lounge as he walked to the backroom and met his "friends." I was afraid this morning, and was reminded of how demanding he was towards me that night.

 

Every instant of my life, I thought of what I should write on strange days and strange moments. This was one I didn't know how to explain, only expressed in few words to confine my embarrassment that would spiral down to frustrations later. Spiritual warfare was my first thought, but my second was discouragement and failures. I felt the dark presence pulling me to surrender my life, to forget my goals to write my books, and to give up on true love and to withdraw from society. The dark kept pulling me as I felt my chest became heavy and every short breath I took had a oxygen cap never allowing a full breath into my chest cavity. I didn't know what to call it, but I felt it and it kept pulling me lower and lower as if a force was pushing me down to the grave.

 

I took myself out of bed and turned off my alarm because it never went off. I turned on the lights and took myself to work for my graveyard shift. I thought of them, the people who wanted my death because I was a survivor, and the persecutions replayed inside my brain. Could I transform these energies into something positive? I wasn't sure, but I knew that if the devil wanted my demise, I was up to something holy, beautiful, helpful to the world, loving, fruitful, and benevolent. 

 

Since I was young, these dark spirits lingered above me, always pushing, bullying, demanding, abusing and labeling. These dark spirits were real human beings, and also memories of the past. The thoughts of how I would help those who were hurt through my writing, my blog, and my testimony might be the cause of their hate. But, they were not in the room with me, nor in the car, nor in my life, and I had nothing to lose. I had the right, and it was mine alone. Whatever dark spirits from whatever presence or religion, it didn't matter. What mattered was my belief, my decision to pursue my dreams and those evil presence had nothing to do with me, it was those jilted men.

 

I sometimes wished I knew dark magic, or even white magic, and during Hallow's Eve, I would cast a spell upon their souls to be cast out to hell and to never come back. My rational brain, although distraught and hurt, never once wanted to harm their lives the way they hurt me. God avenged for me, perhaps not this instant, but I knew He will. For now, I took myself to the Psalms again and the Romans again, and the Corinthians again. The battle was never ending, and all I hoped for was for me to be given grace and mercy in due time, for I fought this battle long and hard, even while injured and broken inside.

 

My spirit kept going, anticipating glory down the road. I believed.

 

Just write.

His orange and brown striped beanie was snug on his head as he stepped his left foot forward facing the merchandise. He straightened his arms forward pretending to ride something. He vroomed with his lips pursed as if he was riding a motorcycle. He turned his head to the left and saw me. He stopped and fixed his beanie. 

 

"I like this," he said, pointing to the little two wheeler with training wheels with suspension brakes and tilted wheels.

 

"That's a bicycle," I said. "It's a Schwinn."

 

"Yeah. I like it," he said. 

 

"I never had a Schwinn, but I bet it's fun," I told him and smiled.

 

"I don't need this stuff," he said, pointing to the training wheels.

 

"Who taught you how to ride a bicycle?" I asked him.

 

"My Dad. He can do everything. But, my Mom said it's not true," he replied.

 

"Depending on what he does for a living, maybe he can do everything," I said.

 

"MOM! What does Dad do?" he shouted to the next aisle. I was scared I might have gotten myself in trouble with his Mom.

 

"He's a Tax Attorney, Brian, why?" his Mom said.

 

I became skeptical of whether Brian's Dad really could do everything.

 

"He's a tax attorney," said Brian, and smiled at me.

 

"He can do his own taxes," I said, and shrugged my shoulders, although I wasn't sure he really could do everything.

 

"I think he can do anything," said Brian. I overheard his Mom saying, "He really can't, honey. I do everything," she said.

 

"Mom!" Brian whined. "Can I have this bike?"

 

I started leaving to the next aisle, because I might have gotten into a little private family discussion.

 

"Mom, I want this bike so Dad doesn't have to ride alone," said Brian.

 

I smiled, because I think Brian misses his Dad when his Dad goes cycling to the mountains. 

 

"Your Dad can do everything," I whispered to Brian.

 

"Mom, I want this bicycle," yelled Brian. His Mom walked to the bicycle aisle with her cart, and said, "I wanted to get your arts and crafts stuff."

 

I left the aisle, because I might have gotten Brian and his family in trouble. 

 

Just write.