Pink Koala
I am a Pink Koala, and I stand in front of the Royal Palace square in Madrid almost every day under the yellow sun.
My job is to have my photograph taken with tourists, for which I receive coins. From morning until evening, I stand continuously, occasionally dancing softly. I also have a pink belly button. You may just think that I look a little sad, but that is your imagination.
As I shift on the spot, I plaster my face with a wide smile, even if they cannot see it behind the mask. I lift my furry hips, aching for attention, for that magic coin slip. I notice people seeing my drawn face in different ways. Sometimes people smile, sometimes they frown, sometimes they look sorry for me.
At times, I can’t get anyone’s attention for three or four hours, and I get sad when people walk by like I’m not even there. Although I’m a bright, lucid pink, I feel a sense of being unseen.
However, I instantly feel better when someone’s smiling face turns toward me.
Especially children love me and come to me.
When the child took a photo with me and waved saying “Gracias” and put some coins into the piggy bank in front of me, I also tried to raise my fixed costume hand and said “Gracias” in a soft voice.
Maybe my job is legally ‘grey’, but the Spanish police tolerate those of us who work hard.
If I earn more than usual, at the end of the day, I buy myself an ice cream as a treat.
Then, I brush my pink koala costume to remove the dirt and think of tomorrow.
A black dog that looked like an orang-utan
When Mr Sano went to the dog breeder, he found a little black dog with no hair on his face. When he asked the breeder about it, the breeder said the little dog was a Pomeranian, and that when the dog was born he lost all his facial hair due to a skin disease.
The breeder then told Mr Sano that he could take the little black dog for free, because no one wanted to buy him.
Mr Sano felt pity for the little dog, which was clinging on to his legs. He took the dog back home, along with a Labrador Retriever, which he had originally intended to buy.
Mr Sano named the little black dog Kuro, and the Labrador Tom. He loved them both equally.
Mr Sano’s neighbours came round to the house; they had heard that he’d bought a Pomeranian and a Labrador, and were curious to have a look at the new dogs. But they were disappointed when they saw the little black dog with no facial hair: some of them thought the dog looked like an orang-utan and immediately lost interest in him, preferring to give their attention to Tom.
Kuro had a winsome attitude and would jump around Mr Sano’s neighbours, trying to get their attention, but no one looked at him.
One day, Kuro was playing in Mr Sano’s garden when some primary school children were making their way home; he tried to jump up and show himself to the children on the other side of the wooden fence but the children took one look at him and walked past as if nothing was there.
They always, though, ran to a dog if they thought it was cute.
Kuro was also unpopular among the other dog owners that gathered in the park, whereas Tom was a big hit. A lot of people complimented Tom for his shiny hair and beautiful looks.
Kuro expected everybody to make a fuss over him as well. He ran up to people wagging his tail energetically, but no one wanted to talk about him; no one even cared that Kuro was there at all.
It was such for Kuro the black dog his entire life. And then, one day, it was over. Tom felt sad, because he had lost so many potential years’ good company.
The House in Western Kentucky
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I got a call from a neighbour of my mother, telling me she had passed away. I rushed back to my childhood home in Western Kentucky, where I’d lived alone with my mother in a log cabin built by my father.
Mother lived there for seventy years. My father died shortly after I was born. He was accidentally run over by a trolley train in a coal mine. He lost one leg and had a poor prognosis. After that, my mother worked hard and got me to go to university. I was an only child; her eyes filled with what she called her ‘happy tears’ every time we said goodbye.
The last time I saw her was three months ago, in late summer. At that time, she was still doing well. But when her neighbour found her on her weekly visit delivering freshly baked bread, my mother was laid out on the floor, her body already cold.
On the train home to Western Kentucky, a memory swelled of Mother; it was so vivid and I felt her close. I was in my second year of primary school, at the beginning of the summer, and one of the school teachers told us in a class, ‘If you put your ear to the rail track, you can hear the train approaching, and even if you can’t see the train, you can hear it in the distance.’
I wanted to try that on the railway near my house. I put my ear to the tracks to see if I could hear it. There was silence for a while, and then I heard a thumping sound coming from afar. I couldn’t see the train, but its sound was getting louder and louder with the rhythm of my heart. As soon as I got home, I told my mother about my great discovery. She jumped from the chair and held me tight as if we hadn’t seen each other in a long time.
‘God forgive my child. Protect him. This child did bad, this child did bad.’ She kept repeating those words over and over while shedding tears.
On arriving back at the house in Western Kentucky, my mother was already placed in the coffin. Her face was peaceful and happy, surrounded by yellow, red and pink nasturtiums.
