once, a long time ago, i stole some quarters from my mom’s purse.
i had so many in my fist, I could barely close it.
as I was walking up the staircase in our house, there was the inevitable soft clink of sweaty quarters slipping around in my greedy tight fist. My father, the shrewdly honest, figured out in a lightening flash what was up, and demanded that i reveal what i was so desperately trying to hide within my childish grip.
when my fingers slowly unfurled, like albino spider legs, he kneeled down and cried at the thought of his daughter, the thief.
i never stole anything again.