Reasoning with a Six Year Old

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Two weeks ago, Katelin comes to see me.

“Hi, grandma Buni. I have this for you,” and she hands me a red paper heart she had made at church.

“I appreciate your gift, but I can’t receive it.”

Wide eyes. “Why?”

I try to stay serious. “I have the feeling that you like it too much to give it away.”

“Please, take it. I would love you to have it.” She places the precious piece of art in my hands.

“I will treasure it,” I say and hold it at my chest.

Last week.

Katelin comes for a visit again and sees the valued heart on my table.

“I’m sorry, Buni, but I have to take it back.”

I mimic stupefaction and let myself in the chair.

“You can’t do that.”

She picks it up and reassures me, “Next time I will give you something else.”

I massage my forehead with one of my hands.

“But I like this heart so much. You gave it to me.”

She hides it at her back.

“I’m sorry. I really need it, too.”

I shake my head and take a deep breath. The little girl tries to comfort me caressing my cheek.

“Don’t cry, Buni. I’ll bring you something really pretty next time. I promise.”

When she leaves the house, she forgets the gem on my table. Can’t wait to see what she does when she comes back.

 

 

 

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What They Said, We Believed

There were people of great influence who died lately. Gifted men and women shared their passion in life and marked an unique road. Their songs and movies made our hearts leap from joy or despair.

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What they said, we believed.

What they did, we wanted to do as well.

The time had stopped. We were convinced that they would live forever, or at least much longer than us.

Then something happened and we held our breath. We raised our prayers. We thought that somehow, death would get lost somewhere and never find them.

Some got to say ‘goodbye.’ Others were just swept away like a leaf.

We cherish their memory; we adorn the work of art left behind.

Then, what?

I was an atheist, but not anymore.

 

Miss Morgan the Teacher – from Mystery Serious

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There was no doubt that Miss Morgan was one of the most sophisticated teachers in the school. But not that first morning after the winter break. It was early, right after 7AM. Leaned on the building’s wall, the security guard took a sip of coffee from his paper cup when he saw the teacher coming from the parking lot. She stopped for a few moments to take off one of her shoes and shake it. Then she put it back and continued her walk.

When she came close to the building, the woman stiffed her neck and lifted her chin in a try to show self-control, but she couldn’t foul the guard.

“Morning, Miss. Is everything OK?” and he opened the door for her. It was his first time talking to this teacher. He felt it was his duty to ask such a question.

The woman didn’t look at him, motioned her head instead of greeting and moved forward without a word. A strand of hair loosened from behind her ear and covered her eye. When she pulled it back, her hand was shaking.

“Do you need help, Miss?” the security guard insisted from the frame of the door pointing to the heavy bag the woman was carrying. But he got no answer.

Miss Morgan stepped in her classroom and turned on the lights. Her heart was beating franticly. Yes, they were there in her school bag. She dumped them on her desk and slowly took a seat in her chair. While staring at the pile, a stream of sweat had covered her forehead, but she didn’t care to wipe it off.

All her students’ tests were there, ungraded.