Mom bought me a turtle because she felt bad. Jonesing for change to buy cigarettes she soon discovered my cherished collection of 50-cent pieces. Money is money, and back then those coin-operated laundromat vending machines didn’t discriminate between two or four bits. When did the remorse set it? When the pull-grind-plop-slide of the dispenser coughed out her ill-gotten Rothmans? After her first drag? As soon as I returned from school? It was a little painted turtle from Woolco. One morning, it died; its dried-out carapace stuck to the ersatz rock in its tiny fake pond. Under the plastic palm tree.
Inspired by
The Power of Instinct. Image by
WillYouAddToTheStory on Etsy.
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