Stories Are Never Finished
My son was in the second grade.
He could read by himself,
but still liked to be read to.
We read about a big, fluffy, funny dog—
very charming, but at the end,
he died.
I could not hide my disappointment.
“Awww, he died!” The sadness hit
as if I lost my own pet.
“Don’t worry, Mom,” my sensible son said,
“Just go back to the beginning,
and he’ll be alive again.”
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