THE ANIMALS
I
slip my sticky hand into Aunties
long fingers and start to sing Old
McDonald. She grins down and
pulls my six-year-old shoulders to
her side. “Are you excited to see my
work?” she asks, guiding me across the
scorching parking lot. Sunlight sparkles
her perm and brightens her scrunchy. A
brown bunny scampers by a nearby
Volkswagen. “Bring your niece to work
day is only once a year you know,” she
says, winking an aquamarine eye.
“Yep. I wanna see the cows,” I
chirp, fingering my I Love Milk t-shirt.
Auntie told me there were tons of animals at her work, and they all waited in
cozy little pens, waiting to complete their
mission. I imagined them grazing in emerald grass, wearing glass helmets and
spacesuits. At first, Mommy used her
grim voice and told Auntie I was six
years old. Auntie promised all we'd look
at would be the animals, nothing else.
They talked for a whole episode of Barney, Mommy stirring macaroni salad,
Auntie drinking lemonade. Eventually
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