The citizens of
Hillmomba know me as that crazy lady who drives around talking to herself. Any
time they see me drive by, with my jaws jabbering, they assume I am conversing
with me, myself, and I. But that’s not true. Behind T-Hoe’s tinted windows, and
behind my driver’s seat sits The Pony.
I am used to this
arrangement. More room on the shotgun seat for my purse. I am accustomed to
talking to The Pony with one eye on the rearview mirror. At times, when the
road is clear, I reach my hand back and pat The Pony’s leg. His
wiry-hair-covered leg. Yesterday, I reached back with a bit of melancholy.
“What am I going to do
when you’re off to college, and not here for me to pat your leg?”
Without missing a
beat, The Pony said, “I could put in a prosthesis.”
Yeah. He’s quite
literal, that Pony.
2 comments:
Awwww, he is so considerate!
Kathy,
Yes, always thinking of me, even when his plans involve a prosthesis covered with his shaved leg hair.
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