Jumping up and down was Michael. Mike. Mikey. Michaelson. His grandfather called him that. He said it reminded him of an Italian, nothing more.
The nine year old boy was gleaming because of his first toy.
"Papa, papa, look at what pappy gave to me."
The father glanced and smirked. "Boy, I wish I had your joy. Off you go and play. Tonight we pack."
"Must we, papa?" His eyes turned teary. "We moved here a few days ago."
"Afraid so, sport. People don't want us here, either."
"It's my fault, I knew it." He threw his toy and whimpered.
"It's the people's fault, not yours. And don't you do that to your toys. You don't know how long it has been since I saw your grandfather smile. Now, go along and play."
Michael crawled away to the gift.
"Stupid people. I wish I had two legs to kick a ball, then I'd show you. With this yo-yo I can't play much, but at least I have my first toy," he sighed and knocked himself out at the first spin.
No comments:
Post a Comment