by J. R. Nichols
“Can’t I have him?” she pleads.
“I’ll name him Prince Charming, and make him a crown out of paper mache.”
“Sofia, he’d just eat it”, I say, holding my nose.
“Meh!” The goat blurts, in a voice so loud, I start. The kid has a booming, strangulated voice. Sofia and I laugh, and the goat hollers again. Tears stream down my face and I realize this is the first time we’ve laughed together since Bob died.
“That means, ‘I love you,’ in goat language,” Sofia says.
“Well then,” I say, “who am I to stand in the way of love?”