Shortly after Chomsky started kindergarten, he launched his cough drop-collecting hobby.
He found his first shiny tin, with an image of a cherry on the lid, in a kitchen trashcan. He went wild.
“Sweet serendipity! Eighteen cherry candies arranged in a clever container!”
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Click, click. I lock my daughter and myself in the master bedroom, like secrets hidden within a diary.
Every Friday night, since the mistress interloped, I spread beach towels and picnic fare on the master bed for my daughter and me. Afterwards, she and I talk and talk, until she falls asleep among the smells and debris of the evening’s feast.
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