Geppetto’s Gift
“She doesn’t bark.”
“What are you talking about?”
“She doesn’t bark. The dog grandpop made for me. She doesn’t bark.”
“Bradford. You’re twelve-years-old. The dog Grandpop Rossi made for you is a classic. It is a hand pull-toy crafted from imported Ceylon ebony and Ponderosa pine. It is a collector’s toy.”
“I know that. But I wanted a dog that barks. One that I can go to the park and throw Frisbees with and he’ll bring them back.”
“Well, we don’t always get exactly what we want.”
“But Grandpop is always telling me stories of him and Papa when Papa was just a boy. Every night he would tell these remarkable stories of trips through the Great Forest to find just the right piece of wood. And all about how he carefully carved each of Papa’s parts. How he lovingly whittled and sanded and whittled and sanded until every piece fit just right.”
“I know the stories.”
“The stories must be true. Papa said that they were true.”
“Papa wouldn’t lie to you. But what else did Papa say?”
“Without love, unabashed love, it never would have happened.”
“Well, there you have your answer.”
“I just have to love Piddle’s, that’s his name, I just have to love Piddle’s until he is real?”
“Sounds like that’s what Grandpop would say.”
“Good. Mom, what’s unabashed mean?”
Written for Flash Fiction for the Practical Practitioner.
