DESTROYED © 2002 M.D. KOFFIN THIS DRAFT IS FOR PREVIEWING PURPOSES ONLY. DO NOT COPY OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS MATERIAL WITHOUT THE AUTHOR'S EXPRESSED PERMISSION. How fragile everything is. Romantics write endlessly on the frailty of love and pride. Infatuation expires and the remains deteriorate into anguished regret. Ego wilts and the remains crumble into anguished disquietude. Souls brutalized by belated truths exposing themselves in the retelling of tragic tales. One of the first things I ever wrote was in elementary school. It was a common assignment, one that was repeated every year like the ritual of the holiday. What do you want for Christmas? What does any child missing a parent want the most? "I want my mommy back." I wrote firmly in a green crayon scrawl on a red construction paper reindeer. "I miss her very much. Our house is not happy. The plants are brown." I was proud. Of the dozens of other wishes, mine was placed on the bulletin board in the center. The display was in the corridor to the auditorium, and all of the parents would view them on their way to the school play. On that night, I was holding my father's hand and happily skipping down the hallway. I was humming "Silent Night", which I would be singing with my class. I was going to be dressed as an angel. "Which one is yours, Dove?" My father asked, patiently smiling down at me as I pulled him over to the decorated board. Like I was playing eanie-meanie-minie-moe, I allowed my free mittened hand to slowly pass over the other answers drawn from unrealistic selfishness like "I want a pony" or altruistic lies like "I want world peace", finally stopping on my own. "That one!" I patted it tenderly for emphasis. My father seemed to stare at it for a long time. Adults read much faster than me, I knew, so when I was done rereading I turn to go. I had to get dressed in my costume. My arm was nearly yanked from the socket as my father stood frozen in place. He absently released my hand and I anxiously rubbed at my strained shoulder. Something was wrong. A teacher would have told me if I misspelled a word or if I made a mistake in penmanship, I was sure. His hands settled wearily on either side of my creation, then closed in like a trash compactor. The paper that had seemed so firm when I had carefully traced and cut out the beast, crumpled easily in his shaking hands. One antler remained orphaned on the corkboard, as thumbtacks popped out and dropped to the floor. He turned away from me with bent, cloven-hoofed legs dangling out of his fist. A part of me wilted like the planters in our house as I misunderstood his anguished regret. He hated it. I was a silent angel that night, my stinging eyes downcast to my white slippered feet as the rest of my companions carried the tune. All I could think about was that I had made something bad, something so bad that it had to be destroyed. I did not realize then that my wounded self-esteem was nothing compared to my father's broken heart. DESTROYED © 2002 M.D. KOFFIN THIS DRAFT IS FOR PREVIEWING PURPOSES ONLY. DO NOT COPY OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS MATERIAL WITHOUT THE AUTHOR'S EXPRESSED PERMISSION.