I hoist James from the stroller and point at the pink little sausages with legs. He watches
them with only mild interest. I can‟t tell if he‟s repulsed or bored by their wrinkly bodies and
beady eyes. Maybe
he doesn‟t care because they don‟t look like Spongebob.
One of the mole rats labors from its subterranean den and climbs out onto the fake strip
of African savanna, its nose testing the air. The rodent‟s large incisors flash like
Chiclets beforeit scurries back inside the tunnel.As a child those teeth fascinated me. I used to stand here for hours and stare at their oddlystructured mouths with teeth much too large for their heads and wonder why they needed them.Maybe it was true about God having a sens
e of humor and all. Maybe we‟re funny looking to
I point this out to my parents but they‟re too preoccupied staring in opposite directions. I
always tried to be the mediator in those situations.
“These must be Jabberwocks,” I said, for those large buck teeth reminded me of the
Through the Looking-Glass
. These Jabberwocks didn‟t have waistcoats though.
“There‟s no such thing,” My father grumbled before shuffling off.
My mother hung her head.The mole rats di
dn‟t care what they were called.
Beware the Jabberwock, my son.
James has had enough of the stroller and insists on me carrying him, which I‟m ok with,
though it does make pushing the stroller very difficult with only one hand. He burbles in my ear