Easter Chicks
My brother and I get Easter chicks. Down so soft. Dyed pastels – one purple, one blue. One day they are no longer chicks.
“They're hateful. They peck my feet when I'm hanging the wash,” Mom complains.
Then the ultimatum. “They go or I go.”
At dinner, Dad says that some of the under feathers still showed the original dye. My brother grabs a drumstick, but I can't eat.
mom happy
with the new craze
pet rocks
