Christmas woolen sweater

One day, my father bought a convertible. Do not ask me. I am only five years old. He randomly bought it and drove it home as if he had brought home a box of chocolate almond ice cream. Imagine my mother’s surprise. She used to tie rubber bands on the doorknobs. She used to wash old plastic bags and hang them on a clothesline to dry, a string of thrifty jellyfish floating lazily in the sun. Imagine her cleaning cheese from a glossy bag, on its third or fourth turn, when my dad parked his Chevy convertible.

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