More Butter
“Wake up, It’s time to get the butter,” my older brother told me, shaking me in my bed. It was early, so early that it was still dark out, and now it was time to carry out whatever plan Michael had told me about while we were putting our pajamas on.
“Be quite” he said as I followed him downstairs in the dark.
He opened the refridgerator door, and handed me two cool sticks of butter from the plastic drawer. I had never seen such a thing as refridgerated butter in the wrapper before. It looked like creamy bars of gold. I was two.
We took our booty and hoarded it in Mike’s desk, a little rickety brown think that Mom also used as a little girl. Speaking of whom, she had now awakened and was explaining to us, with a level of patience that–now come to think of it–was quite admirable, that keeping butter in the desk would attract flies.
For years after, whenever I saw that little desk, I would examine the screwholes on the desktop, left behind from some part of the desk that was removed eons before. I would I wonder if flies could really fit through them.
