Of all the discussions that Oona and I have had on our walks home from "school" (daycare), probably the most animated revolve around the physical properties of ghosts. In her mind, a ghost is almost completely defined by the absence of arms and legs. So when I suggest that her cousins are ghosts, or her mommy is a ghost, or perhaps even she is a ghost, she will instantly refute this by pointing out the presence of appendages. No, she'll say, No, I'm not a ghost. I have arms. Look, daddy. LOOK. I HAVE ARMS. I HAVE ARMS AND LEGS! At which point I remind her that it is not polite to yell in the street. And then we turn the conversation to whether or not ghosts can eat. They *do* have mouths, I point out, and watch her brain explode.
People are always telling me that my work is too dark. So I've put up this sunnier story, but even it has a shadow, as its original publisher – a fine Atlantic Canadian literary magazine called the Gaspereau Review – is no longer in business. ---------------- It was a simple enough thing and that thing was simply this: Edmund Kelley was a gentleman. Of course his mom called him her 'little gentleman', as in 'Oh Edmund, you are my perfect little gentleman,' which did seem to hold to a certain logic that these type of things often follow, considering her affection for him and the fact that he was, after all, only ten years old. Still, Edmund himself was not particularly fond of the diminutive aspect of that title. Gentleman was enough; gentleman summed up the whole thing rather nicely, thank you. He was definitely a more refined version of your average child. He lived in a state of perpetual Sunday m
Oh my gosh. You are a good Daddy!!
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