"I have to know," my daughter-in-law asked, "Why a chicken?" The twenty-something young man seated at the end of the Gold Line car was cupping a downy peeping chick in his hand. The grandchildren were rapt.
"They were on sale," he said. "Two-fifty." The chick did what chickens do, and his friend handed him a brown paper sack punched with air holes. The young man eased the chick back into its bag and gratefully accepted a squirt of hand sanitizer out of the bottle my son pulled from his pocket.
My grandchildren, like all children, often act impulsively. And sometimes young guys buy chickens. What other exceedingly cute creature could you buy for two dollars and fifty cents? There's delight in following a whim, allowing your heart or your gut to dictate to your head. I don't do that much. My bathroom mirror has daily reminders taped to it. My iCal is color-coded. Writing. Personal. Home. MFA used to have a color, too--but that category has been retired.
Since the division of my joint assets is likely to go on forever, I think I ought to indulge my improvisational impulses. Have some fun with it.
Why not a chicken?
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