Monica Sok

Cherub-bee-dee how does a man who doesn’t read English well know that cherub-bee-dum those aren’t really words-bee-dee. But birds. Cherub-bee-dum, he stumbles, reading to me by the sliding glass door cherub-bee-dee, through which I watch my brother play in the dum-dum-yard. Cherub-bee-dee, cherub-bee-dum, like how my father says Fine then! Leave! My mother shouts,Stupid! Dumb! We live in a small bee-dee-nest too, one hallway to bee-dum-slam doors. Birds? What are birds? Thanks to my father, reading with me, I have more feathers. T-H-E. First word he ever taught me to pluck    ... It is a word used all the time. Cherub-cherub-bee-dum! The mail.The mailbox.The school bus.The the. He asks me to read the mail. Not birds,mail. If you don’t read this, you will turn into birds. And I read it to him the best I can. The end. A feather. Two feathers. The. The end. Mother, mother. Repeat after me. Cherub-bee-dee, cherub-bee-dum! We read together before bedtime.